fiCLIOTROPE 


A     SAN     FRANCISCO     IDYL 

TWENTY-FIVE  YEARS  AGO 

AND     OTHER     SKETCHES 


FRANCES    MARGARET^  MILNE 

Author  of  "  For  To-Day,"  and  "A  Cottage  Gray." 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE    STAR    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 
1897 


COPYRIGHT,    1897 
BY    FRANCES    MARGARET    MILNE 


TO    EDITH 

WHOSE  BEAUTIFUL  AND  HAPPY  GIRLHOOD  HAS  EVER  PROVED 

HER     TENDER     SYMPATHY     FOR     OTHERS,     THESE 

SKETCHES  ARE    LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED 

AUNT  FRANCES 


CONTENTS. 

HELIOTROPE 

-       9 
A  MAY  BASKET 

2? 

"HOME,  SWEET  HOME" 

47 

HER  NEIGHBOR         -        .  » 

57 

BROKEN  PROMISES 

-      95 


HELIOTROPE. 


"  There  my  Heliotrope,  like  a  saint,  death-faint, 

Feared  that  radiant  azure  to  paint 

Where  glimmer  the  mansions  of  rest; 
Yet,  for  all  her  pale  doubting,  did  bear,  unaware, 

A  heaven  in  her  breast, 
And  we  leaned  and  we  longed  in  that  heaven  to  share. 


T  was  such  a  sad  change  to  Bess  from 
the  pretty  cottage  garden  in  lovely 
Santa  Rosa,  with  its  clustering  roses 
and  glowing  masses  of  flowers,  to  the 
four  small  rooms  of  this  city  "flat,"  with 
its  "upstairs  yard"  behind,  where  not  a 
foot  of  soil  was  found  to  offer  welcome  to 
any  of  Mother  Earth's  sweet  children. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  the  exciting  va- 
riety of  city  streets  and  gay  shop- windows, 
and  the  novel  experience  of  the  great 
school,  any  one  of  whose  rooms  seemed  al- 
most as  large  as  the  whole  school-house  in 
her  own  town,  and  among  whose  innumer- 
able throng  of  pupils  she  felt  at  first  quite 
lost  and  bewildered.  But  none  of  these 


10  HELIOTROPE 

made  up  to  Bess  for  the  fresh,  pure  air  and 
open  fields.  She  was  a  wise  and  thought- 
ful little  soul;  and  it  was  not  long  before 
she  began  to  realize  that,  unless  on  the  rare 
occasion  when  she  went  with  mamma 
"  down  town,"  there  was  not  much  glory  or 
bliss  in  a  city  life,  when  it  meant  living 
ever  so  far  out  on  one  of  the  street  car  lines 
(there  were  none  but  the  slow,  old-fash- 
ioned horse-cars,  then),  and  climbing  that 
long,  dreary  flight  of  stairs  to  the  rooms 
called  home.  The  wide,  shady  streets  and 
the  vine-embowered  dwellings,  and  the 
large,  old-fashioned  plaza  with  its  careless 
stretch  of  grass  and  clumps  of  live  oaks, 
would  have  far  more  than  reconciled  her  to 
the  loss  of  an  occasional  glimpse  through 
those  gorgeous  thoroughfares  of  Market 
and  Kearny  streets,  where,  on  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  she  had  sometimes  watched  the 
richly-dressed  ladies  who  thronged  out  of 
the  theatres  at  the  matinee's  close. 

The  one  real  delight  Bess  had  known  dur- 
ing those  first  six  months  in  San  Francisco 
had  been  the  May-day  festival  at  Wood- 
ward's Gardens  (the  dear  old  gardens  are 
gone,  now!)  How  she  had  enjoyed  that  day! 
And  truly  it  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  see 


HELIOTROPE  11 

the  crowds  of  school-children,  with  their 
mothers  and  teachers  (who  were  all  admit- 
ted free),  pouring  into  the  spacious  and 
handsome  grounds,  parting  and  meeting  in 
mutual  delight  as  they  roamed  from  one  ob- 
ject of  interest  to  another;  now  watching 
the  sea-lions'  uncouth  gambols,  disporting 
in  the  great  basin;  now  walking  through 
the  cool,  rocky  corridor  of  the  aquarium,  and 
pausing  in  rapt  delight  before  the  silvery 
trout  flashing  back  and  forth  in  their  crys- 
tal prison,  or  turning  with  shuddering 
disgust  from  the  cruel  shark  who  seemed  to 
follow  the  gazer  enviously  with  its  evil  eye. 
But  the  loveliest  picture  of  all — a  rapture 
both  for  eye  and  ear — was  the  extensive 
aviary,  enclosed  with  its  light  and  beauti- 
ful wire  railing,  within  whose  generous 
confines  the  birds  soared  and  sang  uncon- 
scious of  captivity.  Bess  hardly  knew 
whether  to  linger  longest  here  or  in  the  con- 
servatory, where  every  flower  and  shrub 
seemed  calling  her  to  stay.  She  looked 
with  longing  eyes  at  the  foliage  and  bloom, 
as  the  gardener  carefully  watered  and  ar- 
ranged the  stands  of  potted  plants. 

"Oh,  mamma,"  she  said  as  they  sat  down 
to  lunch  in  one  of  the  arbors,  "if  I  only  had 


12  HELIOTROPE 

>. 

one  little  plant,  even  in  the  tiniest  flower- 
pot! It  would  have  a  little  earth  about  it 
— it  is  so  dismal  never  to  see  a  bit  of  earth; 
only  boards,  boards!" 

Mamma  laughed  at  her  little  girl's  tragic 
tone.  "It  will  be  still  more  dismal  to  have 
a  discontented  daughter,"  she  said,  patting 
her  darling's  cheek.  "But  I  know  my  Bess 
does  not  mean  to  be  that;  only  since  she 
cannot  have  her  own  little  garden  now, 
from  which  to  gather  any  of  her  favorite 
blossoms,  she  must  try  all  the  more  to  be  a 
fragrant  little  house-flower  herself,  and 
make  home  sweet  and  glad  and  bright  for 
papa  and  mamma." 

But  I  am  sure  mamma  must  have  pon- 
dered over  that  pitiful  lament:  "It  is  so 
dismal  never  to  see  a  bit  of  earth,"  as  mam- 
mas do  ponder  over  the  sayings  and  wishes 
of  their  little  ones,  for  one  morning  nearly 
a  month  later,  when  Bess  awoke,  she  al- 
most thought  she  must  be  dreaming  still, 
or  back  again  in  dear  Santa  Rosa,  for  there 
was  the  loveliest  perfume  floating  through 
the  room;  and,  as  she  rubbed  her  sleepy 
eyes,  she  saw  on  the  stand  beside  her  bed 
the  cunningest  little  flower-pot  with  a 
plant  of  heliotrope  in  full  bloom,  seeming 


HELIOTROPE  13 

to  waft  her  "good-morning"  from  every 
scented  petal. 

I  can  tell  you  Bess  was  up  and  dressed 
very  quickly  that  morning;  and  what  a 
happy  little  girl  it  was  that  came  into  the 
kitchen  where  mamma  was  laying  the  table 
for  breakfast! 

"Oh,  what  a  beauty,  mamma!"  she  cried, 
setting  her  treasure  very  carefully  on  the 
broad  sill  of  the  open  window.  And  then 
two  plump  arms  were  thrown  around  mam- 
ma's neck,  and  two  sweet  kisses  gave  her 
loving  thanks. 

But  it  would  not  do  to  deny  one  of  Cali- 
fornia's floral  children  the  air  and  sun  of 
heaven;  a  poor  prisoned  house-plant  would 
have  had  few  charms  for  Bess.  "It  would 
seem  like  a  caged  bird,"  she  said.  And  so 
papa  made  a  little  shelf  just  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  low  enough  for  Bess  to  reach 
but  yet  a  trifle  higher  than  the  close 
wooden  railing  which  enclosed  that  small 
upstairs  yard  which  Bess  had  described  so 
opprobriously  as  "all  boards." 

No  one  but  mamma  could  have  under- 
stood fully  the  intense  pleasure  it  was  to 
Bess  to  gently  stir  the  earth  around  the 
tender  roots  of  her  beloved  plant;  to  watch 


14  HELIOTROPE 

its  healthy  growth,  and  rejoice  in  the  deep- 
ening green  of  the  leaf  and  delicate  laven- 
der tint  of  the  blossom. 

Papa  must  have  one  in  his  button-hole 
every  morning,  and  mamma's  dress  was  not 
complete  without  a  tiny  spray  fastened  in 
the  modest  lace  fichu.  Anything  to  equal 
the  pride  and  satisfaction  of  Bess  in  be- 
holding these  adornments  it  were  difficult 
to  imagine. 

"Poor  child,"  mamma  said  to  herself, 
between  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  "it  does  seem 
cruel  not  to  gratify  such  an  innocent  natu- 
ral longing." 

And  she  and  papa  had  begun  to  hold 
secret  counsel  whether  it  were  not  possible 
to  compass  a  miniature  garden  by  trans- 
forming a  certain  long  empty  box  into  that 
"thing  of  beauty";  papa  thought  he  could 
get  the  earth  to  fill  it  from  one  of  the  new 
parks;  when  suddenly,  one  morning,  this 
little  idyl  of  happiness  centered  in  a  soli- 
tary flower-pot  was  changed  to  woeful  tra- 
gedy. 


HELIOTROPE  15 


PART      II. 

Out  of  her  first  sound  sleep  that  July 
night,  Bess  had  wakened  with  a  smother- 
ing sense  of  the  changed,  dry  atmosphere 
that  betokened  the  coming  of  a  dreaded 
north  wind — the  sirocco  of  California. 

"Oh,  my  poor  heliotrope,"  was  her  first 
thought,  as  she  heard  the  gale  rising;  "it 
will  be  all  withered.  If  I  had  only  brought 
it  in!" 

She  got  up  softly  and  looked  out  into  the 
hall.  It  was  quite  dark  only  for  a  faint 
glimmer  from  mamma's  night  lamp  that 
showed  through  a  half-open  door.  But  Bess 
knew  the  way  so  well  she  felt  sure  she 
could  reach  the  kitchen  without  making 
any  noise,  and  rescue  her  treasure  from  its 
peril.  Her  little  bare  feet  stole  along  the 
passage,  and  with  eager  anxiety  she  found 
her  hand  at  last  upon  the  handle  of  the 
outer  door.  Lightly  slipping  the  bolt,  she 
threw  it  open  and  reached  out  on  tiptoe  to 
grasp  her  precious  flower-pot — but  the 
shelf  was  empty. 

"The   wind    has   knocked    it   off,"    she 


16  HELIOTROPE 

thought,  with  the  first  thrill  of  disappoint- 
ment. "Oh,  it  will  be  all  broken!" 

She  stepped  quite  outside  the  door  now, 
her  little  white  figure  showing  plainly  in 
the  dim  light.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
stars  were  shining  brilliantly  in  a  sky  of 
crystalline  blue  from  which  that  searching 
wind  had  swept  every  trace  of  cloud.  Bess 
could  see  the  floor  of  the  yard  plainly 
enough,  but  just  close  to  the  house  it  lay  in 
shadow;  and  down  she  went  on  her  knees, 
feeling  around  with  groping  little  hands 
that  trembled  with  chill  and  grief;  but  not 
an  atom  of  her  vanished  heliotrope  could 
she  find.  A  narrow  street  ran  along  that 
side  of  the  house — a  blind  alley — giving  ac- 
cess to  the  back  of  both  upper  and  lower 
floors  of  the  houses  on  either  side.  "Could 
the  wind  have  blown  it  clear  over?"  was 
her  next  horrified  thought.  "No,  it  couldn't; 
yes,  it  could  too;  for  the  shelf  is  just  a  little 
higher  than  the  railing.  If  I  had  only 
asked  papa  to  put  it  lower!" 

But  peer  as  she  might  into  the  depths  be- 
low, it  was  not  possible  to  fathom  its  se- 
crets; and  just  then  she  heard  papa's  voice 
saying: 

"Where  in  the  world  does  this  wind  come 


HELIOTROPE  17 

from?  I  declare  the  kitchen  door  must  be 
open !" 

And  she  flew  back  to  close  it,  stopping 
at  mamma's  door  to  call  out: 

"It  is  only  me,  papa;  oh,  mamma,  my 
heliotrope  is  gone!" 

Her  voice  was  all  broken  and  sobbing 
with  cold  and  distress. 

"Bessie,"  said  mamma,  sitting  up  to 
catch  a  sight  of  her,  "is  it  possible  you  have 
been  standing  out  there  in  your  night 
dress?  You  will  get  your  death  of  cold, 
child.  Now,  run  right  back  to  bed  and 
cover  up  warm." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  Bess  answered  with  shiv- 
ering obedience;  and  then,  still  fain  to  be 
comforted,  "Do  you  think  it  is  lost, 
mamma?" 

"No,  no,  dear;  I  guess  not.  We'll  find 
it  in  the  morning.  Kun  along  now,  and  go 
to  sleep." 

And  Bess  cuddled  down  forlornly  in  her 
little  nest,  and  sobbed  herself  into  the  land 
of  dreams. 

Such  curious  dreams!  She  thought  she 
was  walking  along  the  streets  of  a  beauti- 
ful city,  but  it  was  not  a  bit  like  this  "dusty 
and  gusty"  city  of  San  Francisco;  and  it 


18  HELIOTROPE 

was  not  either  like  her  dear  Santa  Kosa. 
There  were  beautiful  wide  lawns  on  either 
hand  where  little  children  played  and  sang 
and  gathered  flowers  that  shone  all  over 
the  rich,  soft  grass,  like  jewels  set  in  emer- 
ald; and  there  were  the  stateliest  buildings, 
through  whose  doors  people  were  con- 
stantly coming  and  going,  and  everybody 
seemed  busy  without  hurry;  and  when  you 
heard  their  voices  speaking  to  each  other 
it  was  like  music,  for  indeed  it  was  the  mu- 
sic of  love.  And  there  was  the  loveliest  rip- 
ple of  water  from  sparkling  streams  that 
ran  like  clear  crystal  over  their  shining 
beds;  and  the  trees  were  full  of  blossoms 
and  fruit. 

A  strange  sort  of  trembling  seized  the 
heart  of  our  poor  little  Bess  to  find  herself 
in  such  a  heavenly  place,  when,  all  at  once, 
her  eyes  caught  sight  of  what  seemed  at 
first  to  be  her  very  own  heliotrope.  Yes, 
that  was  surely  the  same  little  flower-pot 
with  that  three-cornered  nick  in  the  side 
she  could  remember  so  well;  and  there 
were  the  very  number  of  stems  she  counted 
yesterday.  But  how  did  it  come  to  be 
placed  in  the  window  of  that  beautiful 
mansion? 


HELIOTROPE  1* 

And  then  one  of  the  happy  people  of  the 
place  (they  made  Bess  think  of  Bunyan's 
"shining  ones,"  there  was  such  a  glory  of 
love  and  peace  all  about  them)  came  to  the 
window,  leading  a  pale  girl,  and  seated  her 
on  a  soft  couch  of  repose.  "For  her  toil  is 
over  now,"  Bess  heard  sweet  voices  say, 
"and  it  is  our  Brother's  will  that  she  should 
rest  and  be  comforted." 

And  Bess  noticed  that  the  girPs  face  had 
a  strange  new  look  of  dawning  joy,  and 
that  her  eyes  had  the  luster  of  "clear 
shining  after  rain";  and  she  raised  her 
thin  hand,  and  touched  the  heliotrope  with 
loving  fingers,  and  at  that  touch  the  simple 
little  flower  burst  forth  into  such  bloom  as 
it  had  never  known  on  earth,  and  the  little 
clay  flower-pot  changed  and  glowed  until  it 
shone  like  clear  gold. 

Bess  cried  aloud  in  her  wonder  and  de- 
light, and  with  the  cry  she  woke;  but,  half- 
dreaming  still,  she  cried  and  cried  again, 
"Oh,  let  me  stay  there  too!" 

And  then,  out  of  the  distance,  faint  and 
far,  those  heavenly  voices  seemed  to  an- 
swer, "Not  yet,  little  sister;  not  yet.  But 
thou  shalt  come  when  our  Lord  calls,  for  of 
such  is  His  Kingdom." 


20  HELIOTROPE 

And  then  like  the  fuller  swell  of  some  re- 
joicing anthem,  came  the  words,  "Foras- 
much as  ye  did  it  to  the  least  of  these,  ye 
did  it  unto  Me." 

And  Bess  sat  up  in  her  little  bed,  dazed 
and  awe-struck,  while  the  bright  morning 
sunshine  streamed  through  the  curtains 
and  fell  upon  her  Testament  lying  open  on 
the  table  where  mamma  had  left  it  the  eve- 
ning before,  after  reading  their  good-night 
verse.  Bess  looked  instinctively  at  the 
page,  and  read  there  again  the  verse  of  her 
dream. 

It  was  more  than  a  week  after,  and  Bess 
was  almost  beginning  to  forget,  in  the 
throng  of  her  busy  little  life,  that  beauti- 
ful vision  of  her  slumber  when,  one  after- 
noon returning  from  school,  she  happened, 
for  some  reason,  to  go  into  the  house  by  the 
back  way;  and  as  she  passed  along  that 
narrow,  blind  alley,  she  chanced  to  look 
across  to  the  other  side,  and  there,  on  the 
window  sill,  stood  a  flower-pot  with  a  plant 
in  full  bloom,  the  sight  of  which  made  her 
little  heart  stand  still. 

Yes,  it  could  be  no  other;  the  very  air  car- 
ried the  tidings  to  her  in  that  sweet,  caress- 
ing perfume;  it  was — it  surely  was — her 


HELIOTROPE  21 

own  lost  heliotrope!  There  was  the  three- 
cornered  nick  in  the  edge  of  the  pot,  that 
she  remembered  so  well;  there  was  the  let- 
ter "B"  she  had  tried  to  carve  upon  it,  as 
sign  of  ownership;  and,  as  to  her  darling 
flower  itself,  Bess  felt  she  could  have  sworn 
to  every  leaf  and  blossom. 

The  window  was  open,  for  it  was  a  sultry 
day,  and  within  the  room  a  girl  of  perhaps 
eighteen  had  wheeled  her  sewing-machine 
close  up  to  it,  and  sat  with  bowed  head,  so 
absorbed  in  her  task  that  she  did  not  notice 
Bess  standing  in  rooted  astonishment 
across  the  way.  But  after  the  first  sur- 
prised moment,  as  Bess  started  forward 
with  a  sudden  natural  impulse  of  claiming 
her  own,  she  raised  her  eyes,  with  the  sense 
of  another  presence,  and  stayed  her  foot 
for  an  instant  on  the  treadle;  and  in  that 
instant  Bess  saw,  with  a  leaping  heart- 
thrill,  the  worn,  mortal  face  of  the  pale, 
transfigured  girl  who  had  glorified  her 
dream. 

"Would  you  like  a  flower?"  the  sewing- 
girl  asked,  mistaking  Bess's  silence  as  she 
paused  beside  the  window  for  bashful  ad- 
miration. 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  break  off  a  spray, 


22  HELIOTROPE 

and  the  thin  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  of  won- 
drous sweetness.  Once  again  her  dream 
took  living  form  to  Bess;  she  almost  looked 
to  see  the  plant  bloom  with  celestial  blos- 
som as  those  frail  fingers  touched  it,  and 
that  earthen  vase  to  glow  with  golden 
light. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  the  girl  went  on;  "I  put 
it  on  the  stand  beside  poor  father's  bed 
sometimes,"  pointing  to  a  curtained  corner 
of  the  room.  "Poor  father!  he  is  blind  and 
cannot  see  it,  but  he  loves  to  touch  the 
leaves  and  smell  the  flowers,  and  it  helps 
him  to  forget  the  pain." 

"Indeed,  it  is  beautiful,"  stammered 
Bess;  she  had  no  longer  any  thought  that  it 
was  hers. 

"Oh,  mamma,"  she  said  that  evening, 
sobbing  out  her  little  tale  in  those  loving 
arms,  "it  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  given  to 
her  without  me;  only  I  could  have  cried  for 
joy  that  it  was  hers." 

"But  the  most  curious  thing  of  all,"  the 
girl  added,  "is  how  I  came  to  have  it.  It 
doesn't  really  belong  to  me  at  all.  The 
morning  after  that  high  wind,  a  week  ago, 
I  found  it  in  a  corner  of  our  yard,  not  much 
the  worse  for  its  journey,  only  a  stem  or 


HELIOTROPE  23 

two  broken;  and  I  put  it  in  a  sheltered 
place  against  the  wall,  and  I  watered  and 
straightened  it  until  now  it  is  as  good  as 
new.  And  to-day  I  thought  how  I  had  no 
real  right  to  keep  it,  and  so  I  set  it  here, 
thinking  the  owner  might  happen  to  pass. 
But  it  will  seem  very  lonesome  to  father 
and  me  when  it  is  gone." 

"Oh,  she  could  never  take  it  now,"  Bess 
said  hastily.  "I — I — I  mean — whoever  it 
belongs  to — they  could  not  have  the  heart. 
And  see  how  it  grows  with  you — just  as  if 
it  loved  you!" 

"I  am  sure  that  I  love  it,  anyway,"  was 
the  answer.  She  handed  Bess  the  little 
spray  of  green  and  lavender;  and  then  her 
tireless  foot  pressed  the  treadle  again, 
eager  to  regain  lost  time,  and  Bess  felt  she 
could  interrupt  her  no  longer. 

But  her  young  thoughtful  eyes  had  no- 
ticed many  things  during  that  brief  talk. 
It  was  leather,  not  cloth,  that  was  passing 
with  steady  persistence  under  the  firm  foot 
of  that  machine;  but  how  different  the 
heavy,  monotonous  sound  of  the  treadle 
was  to  the  noiseless  swiftness  of  mamma's 
"Domestic."  What  a  poor,  poor  room  it 
was,  too — how  bare  of  any  real  comfort — 


24  HELIOTROPE 

of  which  she  had  caught  a  glimpse!  Bess 
had  been  wont  to  think  their  own  home 
sometimes  bare  enough;  but  this  was  pov- 
erty itself.  And  why  did  that  girl  draw 
her  breath  with  that  gasping  sigh?  Why 
did  she  sometimes  press  her  hand  against 
her  side?  Mamma  would  know;  she  would 
help  her  to  get  well. 

Indeed,  it  was  not  long  before  mamma 
was  a  trusted  friend  across  the  way;  and 
what  tender,  willing  hearts  could  compass 
out  of  narrow  means  to  soothe  those  dark- 
ening days  was  done.  For  Bess  saw  that 
mamma's  face  grew  sadder  daily,  as  she 
watched  the  window  across  the  way,  or  re- 
turned from  the  visit  there,  snatched  from 
her  own  busy  cares;  and  then,  at  last,  the 
ceaseless  hum  of  that  sewing-machine  was 
silenced,  never  to  sound  again;  and  the 
door  opened  for  the  weary  form  of  the  old 
man  to  pass  to  death's  merciful  rest. 
While  within,  on  her  scanty  bed,  the  faith- 
ful daughter  lay  down  at  last,  her  work 
completed,  content  that  God  had  strength- 
ened her  to  its  end. 

And  days  of  suffering  and  days  of  peace 
succeeded,  until  that  morning  when  Bess 
stood,  with  quivering  lips,  beside  her 


HELIOTROPE  25 

mother,  with  a  sacred  grief  and  joy  too 
deep  for  tears  or  wailing,  and  looked  upon 
the  quiet  face  and  closed  eyes,  beside  whose 
deep  repose  the  heliotrope  still  bloomed. 

"She  has  gone  home,"  mamma  said 
softly,  smoothing  the  fair  hair;  and  again 
Bess  seemed  to  hear  the  words: 

"For  her  toil  is  over;  and  it  is  our  Broth- 
er's will  that  she  should  rest  and  be  com- 
forted." 


A    MAY    BASKET. 


"  Who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit,  that  did  mies  her  love?"1 

' '  The  flowers  in  silence  seemed  to  breathe 
Such  thoughts  as  language  could  not  fall.' 


HEKE  wais  a  great  stillness  in  the 
school-room  that  morning,  and  a  look 
of  half-nervous  expectation  on  every 
face — a  look  of  sympathy  and  kindness, 
certainly,  but  yet  not  of  delight. 

Miss  Langton,  the  teacher,  had  been  seri- 
ously ill  for  over  two  months,  and  this  was 
the  first  day  since  her  recovery  that  she  was 
to  take  charge  of  her  pupils  again.  All  the 
girls,  big  and  little,  were  tenderly  glad- 
hearted  to  know  that  she  was  well;  but 
they  felt,  with  a  secret  pang,  how  happy 
those  two  months  had  been,  with  what  un- 
tired  feet  they  had  climbed  the  hill  of 
knowledge  under  a  guidance  they  loved. 
Their  teacher's  place,  during  that  interval 
of  illness,  had  been  supplied  by  Miss  Mor- 


28  A    MAT    BASKET 

ton,  who  had  charge  of  the  class-room 
where  the  younger  scholars  of  the  upper 
rooms  recited;  they  had  all  been  familiar, 
in  their  turn,  with  her  firm  and  gentle  rule; 
even  the  triumph  of  advance  and  success 
had  not  hindered  the  sense  of  regret  with 
which  they  quitted  her  for  Miss  Langton's 
'higher  grade.  Isabel  Morton  was  cer- 
tainly one  of  those  rare  and  gifted  teachers 
who,  like  poets,  are  born,  not  made;  she 
had  the  subtle  faculty  of  imparting 
knowledge  as  if  she  herself  were  gain- 
ing it  along  with  you;  and  it  was 
a  common  tribute  to  her  worth  for 
one  of  the  .  girls  to  say,  "I  never  could 
understand  that  Rule  of  Three  till  Miss 
Morton  taught  me,"  or  "I  always  blundered 
in  my  parsing  till  I  joined  Miss  Morton's 
grammar  class." 

The  sense  of  comradeship  blended  thus 
with  respect  for  authority  and  superior 
learning;  and  a  genuine  affection — in  some 
instances,  almost  a  passionate  regard  of 
reverence  and  love — bound  these  young 
hearts  to  her  own.  Her  wise  and  loving 
rule  knew  no  favoritism,  and  caused  no 
jealousy;  and  if,  as  was  doubtless  the  case, 
there  were  one  or  two  among  her  pupils 


A    MAY    BASKET  29 

peculiarly  endeared  to  her  by  some  especial 
sweetness  of  disposition  and  readiness  of 
thought,  the  duller,  or  less  amiable,  never 
realized  the  difference  by  any  invidious  dis- 
tinction of  preferment,  but  were  drawn  on> 
insensibly,  to  wish  and  strive  for  truer  ex- 
cellence themselves. 

There  were  legends  afloat,  too,  in  this* 
little  world,  of  tender,  humble  ministries 
among  the  poor  and  needy,  of  kindness  be- 
stowred  out  of  her  narrow  means,  that  sur- 
rounded the  fair,  bright  face  of  the  young 
teacher  with  something  of  the  halo  of  a 
saint;  it  had  been  whispered  among  the 
girls  that  Miss  Langton's  salary  had  gone 
on  without  abatement  during  this  tedious 
illness,  through  the  generous  contrivance 
of  her  associate,  who  had  managed,  at  the 
same  time,  to  secure  for  one  of  the  elder 
girls  a  long-coveted  opportunity  to  test  her 
ability  in  teaching — by  resigning  to  her 
care  her  own  class-room,  while  she  took 
charge  of  the  larger  and  more  responsible 
department  of  the  absent  lady  principal, 
with  no  addition  to  her  own  small  monthly 
payment — glad  to  think  that  the  larger 
sum  would  help  to  lighten  the  burden  and 
expense  of  that  heavy  illness,  and  that  the 


30  'A    MAT    BASKET 


weary  hours  of  convalescence  would  not  be 
shadowed  by  any  fear  of  losing  position 
and  income.  And,  indeed,  those  two 
months,  overflowing  with  work  and  anxiety 
as  they  had  been,  had  yet  proved  very 
happy  ones  to  her,  as  well  as  to  her  "girls" ; 
that  large,  cheerful  school-room  had  never 
witnessed  sunnier  hours  than  these,  while 
February  snows  and  March  winds  had 
tried  in  vain  for  entrance.  But  now  the  old 
order  must  return ;  and  Miss  Morton's  gen- 
uine happiness,  and  look  of  sweet  content, 
as  she  entered  that  April  morning,  with 
their  long-absent  teacher  leaning  on  her 
arm,  roused  the  girls  to  almost  a  sudden 
sense  of  shame  for  their  indulged  regret. 
And,  indeed,  the  pale,  thin  face  which 
looked  at  them  with  wistful  eyes,  over  the 
official  desk,  appealed  to  their  young  sym- 
pathy with  unresisted  pathos;  many  an  old 
score  of  fancied  petulance  and  injustice 
was  wiped  out  at  the  sight,  and  softened 
feeling  resolved  that  no  thoughtless  annoy- 
ance should  try  the  strength  of  that  wasted 
frame. 

For,  truth  to  tell,  Maria  Langton  was 
emphatically  a  teacher  made,  not  born. 
Thrust  by  untoward  fate  into  a  calling  for 


A    MAY    BASKET  31 

which,  even  in  her  youth,  she  felt  no  glow 
of  enthusiasm,  she  had  struggled  bravely 
on,  through  infirmities  of  temper  and  of 
will,  yet  with  a  conscientious  endeavor  to 
fulfill  her  trust,  until  middle  life  still  found 
her  straining  at  the  oar  of  a  vocation  which 
had  indeed  become  a  duty,  and  a  habit 
strong  as  second  nature,  but  which  had 
never  been  her  pleasure  or  her  choice. 

As  she  glanced  over  the  room  this  morn- 
ing, in  answer  to  the  murmured  greeting 
of  her  pupils,  her  eyes  looked  dull  and  sad; 
she  pined  for  love,  she  felt  the  chill 
of  its  absence,  yet  knew  not  how  to  gain 
the  coveted  blessing.  A  cruel  sense  of 
contrast  was  tormenting  her  soul;  she  had 
watched,  with  almost  jealous  pain,  many  a 
time  and  oft,  how  those  clear  eyes  would 
kindle  and  those  soft  cheeks  flush  as  Isa- 
bel .Morton  called  her  class;  she  was  imag- 
ining, now,  the  fervor  of  rejoicing  with 
which  that  beloved  presence  would  have 
been  welcomed  back.  How  different  from 
the  decorous,  timid,  half-whispered  con- 
gratulations which  had  met  herself. 

The  foolish,  unreasonable  pain  at  her 
heart  found  utterance  in  words  as  foolish; 
and  yet  I  know  not,  judged  by  results,  whe- 
ther to  call  them  foolish  or  wise. 


32  A    MAY    BASKET 

"I  know  very  well,  girls,"  she  said  at 
the  close  of  the  morning  session,  "that  you 
are  all  sorry  to  lose  Miss  Morton  and  have 
me  back  instead,  but  we  have  no  choice  in 
the  matter  ourselves,  so  you  must  make  the 
best  of  it  as  well  as  I." 

There  was  a  startled  pause  in  the  gather- 
ing together  of  books  preparatory  to  dis- 
missal; some  eyes  looked  down  abashed, 
with  a  confused  sense  of  blame;  some  were 
raised  in  frank  surprise;  while  not  a  few  ex- 
changed glances  of  astonishment  and  ques- 
tion; but  no  reply  was  possible,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  usual  orderly  procession 
filed  out  of  the  room. 

Only  one  girl,  May  Manning,  lingered  be- 
hind. She  had  a  little  message  to  deliver, 
and,  as  Miss  Langton  rose  to  put  on  her 
cloak,  she  came  up  to  the  platform  and  said 
with  modest  sweetness: 

"Mamma  told  me  to  give  you  her  love, 
Miss  Langton,  and  to  say  how  happy  she  is 
to  know  of  your  recovery.  I  am  very  glad, 
too;  it  seems  so  natural  to  have  our  own 
teacher  back." 

Maria's  lips  trembled.  She  was  not  so 
strong  as  before  her  illness,  and  the  morn- 
ing had  been  one  of  suppressed  agitation  to 


A    MAT    BASKET  33 

her.  She  murmured  some  fitting  answer 
to  Mrs.  Manning's  kind  remembrance,  "and 
you  too,  my  dear,  thanks  for  your  kind  wel- 
come." She  held  out  her  hand,  bending  to- 
wards the  girl,  who  stood  a  step  below  her. 
May  colored  as  she  took  it  in  her  own  warm 
clasp,  and,  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse, 
raised  her  head  and  softly  kissed  her  teach- 
er's cheek,  then  with  shy  swiftness  hurried 
away. 

Poor  Misis  Langton!  Her  lip  trembled 
still  more  piteously,  and  a  few  hot  tears 
followed  her  smothered  sob. 


PART    II. 

There  was  no  lack  of  comment  and  dis- 
cussion outside. 

"What  a  strange  thing  for  Miss  Langton 
to  say!"  cried  Ada  Leigh.  "But  she  always 
was  nervous  and  fidgety.  I  thought  a  pity 
of  her,  too;  she  looks  so  ill  yet." 

"I  didn't,"  replied  a  bolder  spirit — Emma 
Coxe.  "I  think  it  was  very  unjust  as  well 


34  A    MAT    BASKET 

as  ridiculous.  How  are  we  to  blame,  if  we 
do  love  Miss  Morton  best?  People  must  be 
lovable,  if  they  are  to  be  loved.  As  long 
as  we  obey  her  rules  and  learn  our  lessons, 
I  don't  see  what  business  it  is  of  hers  how 
we  feel  towards  her." 

"I  think  it  was  very  absurd,  too;  and  yet 
it  made  me  feel  very  uncomfortable,  as  if  I 
had  been  unkind  and  hard-hearted,"  added 
Rebecca  Stone. 

"It  was  so  very  undignified,"  said  Ger- 
trude Daun.  "A  teacher  who  can  forget 
herself  so  is  unfit  for  her  place.  If  Miss 
Langton  would  just  take  notice  how  calm 
and  impartial  Miss  Morton  is,  as  well  as 
so  affectionate  and  kind,  she  could  discover 
the  secret  of  our  preference.  But  she  is  so 
capricious  and  fretful — never  two  days 
alike.  I  wish  I  was  out  of  it  altogether, 
and  into  the  High  School." 

"Oh,  Gertie  dear,  that  is  surely  an  exag- 
geration," exclaimed  May  Manning,  whose 
delayed  footsteps  had  just  caught  up  with 
the  group.  "You  know  Miss  Langton  never 
does  stint  praise  when  she  thinks  it  is  de- 
served; and  she  is  so  proud  of  us  when  we 
do  well.  Don't  you  remember  that  last 
visit  of  the  Directors?  how  she  made  you 


A    MAT    BASKET  35 

read  over  that  beautiful  composition  you 
wrote,  and  had  Ada  bring  out  her  map,  and 
Emma  her  copy  book?  She  had  something 
kind  to  say  to  all  of  us,  I  think,  after  they 
had  gone,  and  then  thanked  us  so  warmly 
for  the  good  order  we  kept  while  they  were 
there." 

"But  you  know  she  is  capricious,  and 
very  cross,  too,  sometimes,"  Gertie  inter- 
posed, but  with  a  somewhat  mollified  tone 
of  voice;  indeed,  the  soft  answer  that  turn- 
eth  away  wrath  was  beginning  to  have  its 
effect  all  round. 

"Oh,  well,  may  be  we'll  be  cross  too  af- 
ter a  while,  those  of  us  who  get  to  be  teach- 
ers," laughed  May.  "If  I  had  to  teach  any 
one  so  stupid  as  I  am  sometimes,  I  know 
I  should  be." 

"Well,  May  Manning,  when  you  get 
cross,  we  may  all  be  excused,"  the  girls 
cried  in  chorus,  for  May's  sweetness  of  tem- 
per was  proverbial. 

"We  can't  wait  now,"  May  continued,  as 
they  reached  the  street  corner  where  their 
paths  parted;  "but  I  have  been  thinking  of 
something  all  morning — only  it's  a  secret. 
Wait  for  me  after 'school,  girls;  I  want  to 
tell  you  about  it." 


36  A    MAT    BASKET 

You  may  be  sure  the  prospect  of  shar- 
ing a  secret  called  together  an  eager  con- 
clave as  soon  as  school  was  over,  and  their 
steps  were  as  slow  as  their  tones  were  ani- 
mated, as  they  paced  homeward  discussing 
May's  proposal. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  girls,"  she  began,  "I 
think  we  are  a  little  to  blame  about  Miss 
Langton.  It  isn't  that  we  ought  to  love 
Miss  Morton  less,  but  we  might  try  to  love 
Miss  Langton  a  little  more.  Just  think,  if 
we  were  only  loved,  all  of  us,  in  proportion 
to  our  goodness,  where  would  we  be?  And 
I  suppose  she  is  a  little  cross  some  times, 
and  can't  make  you  feel  so  one  with  her  as 
Miss  Morton  does,  yet  what  a  good  faithful 
teacher  she  has  been  all  these  years — so 
conscientious  and  anxious  for  our  improve- 
ment. I  went  to  school  before  papa  moved 
here,  where  the  teacher  never  seemed  to 
care  whether  we  knew  our  lessons  or  not; 
but  then  she  was  very  good-natured.  For 
my  part,  I  would  rather  be  scolded  some- 
times than  neglected  and  have  my  time 
wasted  like  that." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  Emma  assented,  with 
murmuring  concurrence  from  the  others. 

"I  have  often  heard  mamma  say,"  ob- 


A    MAY    BASKET  37 

served  Ada,  "what  a  good  daughter  and  sis- 
ter Miss  Langton  is;  and  how,  since  she  was 
only  fifteen,  she  has  been  the  main  depend- 
ence of  her  widowed  mother,  and  helped 
to  provide  for  all  the  family." 

"And  she  showed  wonderful  self-denial, 
too,"  said  Rebecca.  "Just  look  how  fond 
she  is  of  books  and  music  and  lectures,  and 
yet  she  hardly  ever  enjoys  them;  even  her 
drawing,  that  she  is  so  clever  at,  she  has 
not  pursued,  as  she  must  have  longed  to  do, 
because  she  wanted  to  pay  for  her  little  sis- 
ter's lessons  with  that  Mr.  B — ,  and  he  said 
little  Ruth  had  real  genius." 

"You  see,"  May  resumed,  "I  am  afraid 
we  have  thought  too  completely  of  just 
those  little  faults  in  her  that  were  unpleas- 
ant to  ourselves,  and  that,  may  be,  we 
gave  some  cause  for,  too.  And  so.  we 
missed  seeing  really  fine  and  noble  things 
in  her  character  that  we  must  admire  and 
love,  too,  if  we  would.  And  I  tell  you, 
girls,  I  often  think  how  true  it  is  what 
Auntie  says,  that  when  we  once  leave  our- 
selves open  to  love  for  any  one,  and  part 
with  prejudice,  it  is  wonderful  what  good 
we  can  see  in  them,  and  how  the  faults 
dwindle  and  dwindle,  and  how  easy  we  find 


38  A    MAY    BASKET 

it  to  make  excuses  for  those  that  remain. 
That  is  what  Auntie  says,  and  it  seems 
true,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  condemns  us  pretty  effectually,  if  it 
is,"  said  Gertrude,  who  never  shirked  the 
legitimate  conclusion  of  an  argument,  even 
when  it  told  against  herself.  "I  don't  think 
any  of  us  have  laid  ourselves  very  open  to 
love  Miss  Langton,  unless  you,  May,  who 
can  always  see  something  good  in  every 
one." 

"Oh,  indeed,  I  have  been  in  fault,  too," 
said  May,  with  genuine  sweet  humility. 
"You  remember  our  lesson  last  Sunday, 
about  love  being  the  fulfilling  of  the  law? 
Then  it  must  be  worse  to  fail  in  it  than  in 
anything  else.  Somehow  that  came  into 
my  mind  when  Miss  Langton  was  speaking. 
No  matter  how  obedient  or  studious  we 
were,  we  had  in  a  sort  of  way  set  ourselves 
against  loving  her.  And,  after  all,  girls, 
even  if  it  was  foolish  for  her  to  speak  so, 
wasn't  it  a  great  compliment,  too — a  sort 
of  appeal  for  our  love?  It  wasn't  temper 
made  her  say  that,  it  seems  to  me,  but  a 
kind  of  lonely  tender-heartedness." 

"Well,  May,  you  can  make  out  the  best 
case  for  anybody  of  any  one  I  ever  heard," 


A    MAY    BASKET  39 

said  Emma.  "But  come,  tell  us  your  secret, 
for  we  must  soon  hurry  home.  Is  it  some 
penance  for  our  sins?" 

"Oh,  no;  not  exactly,"  said  May,  coloring 
and  laughing;  "or  if  it  is,  I  must  do  pen- 
ance along  with  you.  I  am  just  as  guilty, 
every  bit.  I  do  seem  to  preach  dreadfully, 
girls,  don't  I?  I  wonder  you  don't  all  get 
tired  of  me — it's  a  good  deal  worse  to 
preach  than  to  be  cross  some  times.  So, 
now  for  the  secret:  You  know  next  Tues- 
day is  the  first  of  May,  and  I  thought  we 
never  could  have  a  lovelier  chance  to  show 
Miss  Langton  that  we  really  did  care  more 
than  she  thought  to  have  her  back  again. 
Suppose  we  all  joined  our  purses  together 
and  made  her  a  little  present — a  May  bas- 
ket would  be  the  very  thing.  One  of  us 
could  go  real  early  and  hang  it  upon  the 
school-room  door  handle,  so  she  would  find 
it  when  she  first  came  in.  Let's  every  one 
put  in  a  little  nosegay,  even  if  it  was  only  a 
few  violets,  with  our  name  to  it;  and  let's 
choose  a  real  pretty  basket,  one  she  would 
always  like  to  use." 

"That  is  just  beautiful,"  they  all  declared 
in  chorus.  "What  a  sweet  girl  you  are!  It 
would  be  a  May  basket  in  more  ways  than 


40  A    MAT    BASKET 

"We  must  give  all  the  girls  a  chance  to 
join;  the  more  the  merrier,"  cried  Ada. 
"Only,  it  is  a  Secret  Society,  mind.  And  I 
wish  we  could  hide  some  pretty  little  keep- 
sake that  would  not  fade,  under  the  flow- 
ers." 

"I  saw  the  sweetest  little  blue  and  gold 
copy  of  Tennyson's  'May  Queen'  down  town 
this  morning;  it  wasn't  very  dear  either — 
only  two  dollars."  This  suggestion  came 
from  Gertrude. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  the  very  thing,"  said 
May,  delightedly.  "To-morrow's  Thursday; 
we  can  speak  about  it  among  the  other 
girls  at  recess;  and  then,  the  next  day,  we 
can  bring  all  our  dollars  and  cents,  and 
elect  two  or  three  girls  to  go  on  Saturday 
and  choose  the  basket  and  book ;  every  one 
must  get  their  flowers  by  themselves;  and 
Monday  evening  you  can  all  come  round 
to  Auntie's,  and  bring  your  flowers,  and  she 
will  help  us  arrange  them — she  does  such 
things  so  beautifully;  and  she  will  give  us 
all  a  nice  tea-party,  too,  I  know.  So  be 
sure,  every  one,  and  ask  their  mother's 
leave  in  time." 

"Oh,  you  may  be  sure  of  that,"  was  the 
merry  response.  "We  know  what  a  lovely 


A    MAT    BASKET  41 

time  there  is  when  Aunt  Grace  asks  us  to 
spend  an  evening." 

"What  dear,  good  girls  you  are,"  said 
May,  "to  be  so  pleased  with  my  plan;  but 
I  do  think  it  will  be  just  lovely." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  will,"  Gertrude  answered 
for  the  rest.  "And  Miss  Morton  will  be 
pleased,  too;  she  just  loves  to  see  people 
happy.  And  it's  we  that  ought  to  thank 
you,  May,  for  making  us  all  better." 

And  then  there  were  hurried  adieus,  for 
the  afternoon  was  growing  late;  and  they 
all  sped  home,  full  of  delightful  impor- 
tance. 


PART    III. 

It  was  wonderful  what  a  softened  at- 
mosphere seemed  to  pervade  that  school- 
room during  those  intervening  days. 
Their  own  altered  frame  of  mind 
and  purpose  had  invested  their  teacher 
with  a  novel  and  tender  interest  to 
the  girls.  It  has  been  said  that  any  crea- 


42  A    MAY    BASKET 

ture — certainly  any  human  creature — 
whom  we  help  becomes  straightway  more 
or  less  dear  to  us;  and  so  their  meditated 
kindness  awoke  an  answering  throb  of  gen- 
tleness and  affection,  and  tolerance  for  her 
whims,  that  all  Miss  Langton's  really 
faithful  service  might  have  failed  to  win. 
The  good  seed  of  May's  little  lecture  had 
not  dropped  on  stony  ground;  more  than 
one  of  he*  listeners  pondered  over  it  si- 
lently, seeing  it  illumined  by  the  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  her  own  girlish  example; 
and  could  look  back  gratefully  afterwards 
to  her  influence  as  a  help  to  purer  and 
nobler  purpose  both  in  thought  and  action. 
Meanwhile,  the  wished-for  May  Day 
dawned  at  last — a  veritable  morn  of  May; 
even  crowded  city  streets  could  not  shut 
out  the  radiant  blue  of  the  sky,  or  the  fresh, 
sweet  breeze  that  would  find  its  way,  or  the 
song  of  a  stray  bird.  Maria  Langton 
paused  a  moment,  as  she  reached  the  school 
house  entrance,  to  drink  in  once  again  the 
elixir  of  the  air  and  rejoice  in  the  glorious 
sunshine.  The  tame  monotony  of  her  life 
had  not  yet  dulled  her  delight  in  Nature's 
loveliness;  and  her  heart,  this  morning, 
was  full  of  remembered  spring-times,  when 


A    MAY    BASKET  _         43 

her  happy,  childish  feet  had  lost  them- 
selves in  daisy-sprinkled  fields,  and  the  vi- 
olets and  roses  had  made  sweet  the  air 
around  that  early  home.  Even  now,  the 
perfumed  breath  of  the  woodlands  seemed 
to  visit  her.  She  ascended  the  stairs  so  ab- 
sorbed in  thought  that  she  did  not  notice, 
till  she  was  close  upon  it,  the  blossom- 
laden  basket,  lightly  covered  by  tissue- 
paper,  which  hung  upon  the  handle  of  the 
door. 

What  could  it  mean? 

She  lifted  it  carefully  and  carried  it  into 
the  empty  school-room,  her  bewilderment 
giving  place  to  an  emotion  too  deep  for  ex- 
pression as  she  removed  the  covering  and 
saw,  lying  among  that  glowing,  fragrant 
cluster  of  bouquets,  this  simple  little  card : 

"The  message  of  the  May :  to  Miss  Lang- 
ton,  from  her  loving  pupils,  in  token  of 
their  joy  at  her  recovery." 

Her  heart  beat  with  an  almost  painful 
pressure;  the  tears  rose  welling  to  her  eyes; 
she  touched  the  flowers  with  reverent  ca- 
ressing fingers. 

"And  I  doubted  their  love,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  was  jealous,  and  repined,  and 
longed  for  another  lot  to  be  mine.  O  Lord,. 


44  A    MAT    BASKET 

forgive  my  waywardness — make  me  more 
like  the  least  of  these  thy  little  ones." 

The  great  bell  was  clanging  out  its  sum- 
mons now;  there  were  many  feet  echoing  on 
the  stairs;  and  girls,  in  shy  clusters,  stole 
quickly  and  silently  into  the  room.  Miss 
Langton  sat  behind  her  desk,  with  the  bas- 
ket on  a  small  stand  placed  near  her.  Her 
face  was  very  pale;  but  the  girls  thought 
they  had  never  known  what  beautiful,  soft, 
shining  eyes  she  had  until  that  moment.  ' 

"My  dear,  dear  girls,"  she  said,  at  last — 
and  her  voice  had  in  it  a  new  and  exquisite 
thrill  of  happiness — "how  can  I  thank  you? 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  never  deserved  such  sweet 
remembrance  from  you;  but,  indeed,  you 
have  made  this  one  of  the  dearest  days  of 
my  life.  Will  you  each  give  me  a  kiss  to 
complete  it,  and  make  me  sure  I  am  not 
dreaming?" 

You  may  be  certain  the  girls  crowded 
round  her  and  gave  the  caress  with  right 
good  will.  There  was  no  distance  between 
them  now — never  any  more;  whatever  frail- 
ties of  human  intercourse  might  ruffle  their 
companionship,  the  chill  of  reserve  and  dis- 
like had  melted  away  in  the  sunshine  of 
heaven. 


A    MAT    BASKET  45 

And  was  it  not  a  curious  and  beautiful 
coincidence  that  when  Miss  Langton 
opened  the  New  Testament  to  read  the  cus- 
tomary chapter  for  the  day,  before  recita- 
tion began,  that  chapter  should  conclude 
with  these  immortal  words: 

"And  now  abideth  Faith,  Hope,  Love, 
these  three;  but  the  greatest  of  these  is 
Love." 

And  I  ought  to  tell  you,  may  be,  that  it 
was  not  until  Miss  Langton  had  her  basket 
safe  at  home,  and  was  placing  the  last  of 
her  floral  darlings  in  its  vase  of  cool  water, 
that  she  found  that  dainty  little  book  of 
blue  and  gold,  which  held  the  story  of  the 
poet's  May  Queen. 


HOME,    SWEET    HOME." 


'As  the  bird  to  its  sheltering  nest 

When  the  storm  on  the  hills  is  abroad, 

So  her  spirit  hath  flown  from  this  world  of  unrest, 
To  repose  on  the  bosom  of  God." 


;WAS  a  passenger  on  the  Pacific  Coast 
steamship,  Orizaba,  from  Port  Harford 

,to  San  Pedro,  the  port  of  Los  Angeles. 
The  vessel  was  crowded  with  tourists 
from  San  Francisco,  and  every  state-room 
was  full;  so  that  those  going  on  board,  as  I 
did,  at  an  intermediate  port,  were  fain  to  be 
content  with  sitting-room  in  the  salon.  The 
prospect  of  a  whole  day  and  night  to  be 
spent  thus  was  rather  appalling  to  one  who 
knew  from  experience  what  it  was  to  fall 
victim  to  all  the  horrors  of  sea-sickness; 
but,  by  great  good  fortune,  I  found  refuge 
on  one  end  of  a  lounge,  whose  only  occu- 
pant for  the  moment  was  a  kind-hearted  lit- 


48  "HOME,  SWEET   HOME" 

tie  German  woman;  who,  guessing  from  my 
forlorn  aspect  all  the  misery  of  dizziness 
and  nausea,  gathered  herself  and  her  be- 
longings into  the  smallest  possible  com- 
pass, and  invited  me,  in  broken  English 
and  hospitable  gestures,  to  lie  down.  Oh, 
the  relief  to  drooping  head  and  trembling 
limbs!  I  knew  as  long  as  I  could  shelter 
on  that  pillow  I  might  bid  defiance  to  my 
enemy;  and  lying  there,  after  all,  was 
really  to  be  preferred  to  a  berth  in  an  iso- 
lated state-room,  where  one's  only  compan- 
ions would  be  miserable  fellow-sufferers. 
But  here,  in  the  cheerful  salon,  I  could 
watch  people  coming  and  going,  catch 
snatches  of  conversation,  and  amuse  myself 
by  trying  to  analyze  the  characters  of 
those  around  me. 

When  the  early  autumn  twilight  dark- 
ened into  sudden  night,  there  was  a  general 
gathering  in  of  all  the  promenaders  from 
the  decks,  and  talk  and  laughter  filled  the 
room.  There  was  every  variety  of  traveler 
from  which  to  choose.  Here  was  a  rich 
lady  from  Denver,  costly  jewels  in  her  ears 
and  at  her  throat  and  sparkling  on  her 
white  hand — a  perfect  sample  of  vain  and 
foolish  and  vulgar  display.  Here  was  a 


"HOME,  SWEET   HOME"  49 

tired  mother  with  her  three  or  four  little 
ones — cross  and  sleepy,  fain  to  slumber  on 
the  carpet  at  her  feet;  it  was  no  pleasure 
trip  to  her,  poor  soul,  but  a  wearisome 
"moving"  from  one  town  to  another.  Here 
was  a  school  teacher  coming  back  from 
her  summer  vacation,  sunburned  and 
happy.  And  in  that  far  corner,  hidden  be- 
hind her  long  veil,  sat  a  young  widow  with 
her  baby  girl  asleep  on  her  lap.  Her  hus- 
band had  died  a  month  ago,  in  the  asylum 
for  the  insane  at  Napa — driven  there  by  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  pecuniary  failure, 
caused  by  the  dry  season  of  the  year  before, 
which  starved  to  death  the  flock  of  sheep  on 
his  Santa  Barbara  ranch.  Now  his  wife 
and  little  daughter  were  returning  to  the 
ever  open  shelter  of  a  father's  and  mother's 
home.  There  were  types  enough  to  furn- 
ish study  for  an  idle  observer  through  all 
the  slowly  passing  hours. 

The  Denver  lady  atoned  for  her  flaunting 
display  of  wealth  by  singing,  delightfully, 
old  ballads,  when  a  young  girl  opened  the 
piano  and  played  the  accompaniments.  A 
lively  discussion  between  the  school- 
teacher and  a  visitor  from  the  East,  as  to 
California's  merits,  followed,  in  which 


50  "HOME,  SWEET   HOME" 

others  soon  joined.  Two  capitalists  ar- 
gued questions  of  finance;  and  two  clergy- 
men, creeds  and  education.  So  the  night 
wore  away,  till  those  who  had  state-rooms 
withdrew;  and  the  rest,  disposed  on  chairs 
and  lounges,  and  even  on  the  floor,  dropped 
into  silence  and  sleep. 

With  the  early  morning,  every  one  was 
on  deck,  ready  for  transfer  to  the  "lighter" 
which  was  to  bring  us  to  the  wharf.  The 
sun  was  extremely  hot,  not  a  ripple  on  the 
glassy  water,  not  a  breath  of  wind;  but  the 
sea-sick  sufferers  found  little  respite  from 
their  misery  in  the  heavy,  oily  odor  of  the 
"lighter's"  machinery,  and  in  the  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke  which  blew  all  about  them 
from  pipe  and  cigar  as  the  passengers 
crowded  together  for  an  intermediate  hour 
on  the  dirty,  baggage-laden  deck.  For 
"first-class"  travelers,  the  gentlemen  of  the 
party  seemed  to  me  singularly  wanting  in 
good  manners  and  good  feeling.  I  was 
growing  ill  almost  to  faintness  by  a  cigar 
just  behind  me,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a 
lovely  face  a  few  feet  distant.  Its  owner  had 
been  invisible  the  evening  before,  no  doubt 
"enjoying  the  seclusion  which  a  cabin 
grants";  and  I  gazed  at  her  with  a  sudden 


"HOME,  SWEET   HOME"  51 

interest  and  regret  that  there  had  been  no 
chance  for  an  acquaintance  between  us. 
Her  large  hazel  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light, 
of  love,  and  hope,  and  glad  impatience;  her 
beautiful  red  lips  wore  a  smile  of  refined 
sweetness;  her  slight,  graceful  person  was 
plainly  clad  in  a  neat  traveling  ulster;  and 
her  rich  brown  hair  coiled  smoothly  be- 
neath her  hat.  She  looked  the  one  ideal 
figure  among  that  motley  gathering.  On 
the  seat  beside  her  she  rested  a  heavy  roll 
of  music,  firmly  strapped  together — too 
heavy  a  burden  for  her  girlish  hand  or  arm. 
I  hoped  to  have  had  the  chance  of  helping 
her,  but  the  rush  of  the  crowd  to  the  gang- 
plank when  the,  boat  stopped,  separated  us 
still  more,  and  I  lost  sight  of  her  alto- 
gether. 

There  was  the  usual  turmoil  of  seeing  to 
trunks  and  baggage,  for  we  were  not 
granted  the  convenience  of  "checks,"  and 
then  the  passengers  streamed  into  the 
waiting  train.  What  was  my  surprise  and 
pleasure,  as  I  took  the  first  available  seat, 
to  find  its  other  occupant  my  lovely  un- 
known! We  soon  fell  into  an  entertaining 
chat  about  the  incidents  of  the  journey, 
and  learned  more  or  less  of  each  other's 


52  ''HOME,  SWEET   HOME" 

personality.  She  was  a  music  teacher — as 
I  judged  from  her  appearance,  about 
twenty  years  of  age — residing  in  a  small 
town  a  few  miles  beyond  my  own  destina- 
tion. From  some  things  she  said,  I  gath- 
ered that  she  was  the  main  dependence  of  a 
widowed  mother,  though  a  younger  bro- 
ther shared  her  labors  by  his  cultivation 
of  a  few  acres  of  vineyard  belonging  to 
their  little  home.  She  had  been  in  San 
Francisco  during  a  two  months'  vacation, 
perfecting  herself  in  her  profession  by  tak- 
ing lessons  from  a  celebrated  pianist. 

"My  pupils  are  all  eager  to  have  me 
back  again,"  she  said  smiling;  "they  think 
I  ought  to  be  as  wonderful  as  Signor  C — 
himself  by  this  time.  And  just  see  what  I 
am  bringing  them  for  exercise!"  pointing 
to  the  roll  of  music.  "There  is  thirty  dol- 
lars of  value  bound  up  in  that — all  my  sum- 
mer's savings — but  it  will  repay  me  well, 
I  know." 

I  tried  at  her  suggestion,  but  could 
hardly  lift  the  heavy  package. 

"How  did  you  carry  it?"  I  exclaimed. 
"You  should  have  sent  it  by  express;  it  was 
not  wise  to  fatigue  yourself  so." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  feel  it,"  she  answered 


"HOME,  SWEET   HOME1'  63 

brightly.  "I  could  not  bear  to  part  with  it 
— it  is  too  precious — and  I  must  play  some 
of  those  airs  for  mamma  to-night." 

The  day  was  very  close  and  hot;  the  fine, 
sandy  soil  of  the  roads  sifted  in  every- 
where; the  cars  seemed  to  jolt  unmerci- 
fully; the  vineyards  were  brown  and  faded; 
the  orange  groves  gray  with  dust;  I  was 
low-spirited  and  weary. 

"How  slow  we  seem  to  travel,"  I  said; 
"this  heat  and  noise  give  one  a  dreadful 
headache;  did  you  ever  hear  such  rumbling 
cars?" 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  and  her  face  lighted 
up  with  an  angel's  smile,  "I  can  hear  no- 
thing but  'Home,  Sweet  Home.'  It  is  all 
singing  that  to  me;  every  bit  of  noise  is  like 
music.  Only  think  how  soon  we  shall  be 
there!" 

I  felt  rebuked  by  that  sweet  enthusiasm 
of  affection.  "I  suppose  your  brother  will 
meet  you  at  the  station?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know  he  will;  if  he  is  late 
what  a  shaking  I  will  give  him!  But  it 
will  be  a  very  loving  shake,"  she  added 
softly,  and  her  eyes  brightened  with  sud- 
den tears. 

She  coughed  slightly,  now  and  then,  as 


54  "HOME,  SWEET   HOME" 

she  spoke — very  slightly — and  yet  I  turned 
to  look  at  her  now  with  a  quick  thrill  of 
pain.  Those  large  beautiful  eyes,  were 
they  not  too  intensely  luminous?  That 
softly-moulded  cheek,  was  it  not  growing 
thin,  despite  its  rich  color?  And  was 
there  not  a  pathetic  droop  just  faintly  sug- 
gested by  the  perfect  young  form?  And 
yet,  such  an  atmosphere  of  youth  and  hope 
and  love  seemed  to  float  around  her,  that 
these  dark,  vague  misgivings  shrank  back 
ashamed. 

Poor  child!  She  turned  to  me,  all  uncon- 
scious of  my  mournful  scrutiny,  and  held 
out  a  cordial  hand  in  goodby  as  the  whis- 
tle sounded  for  my  station. 

"Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again,"  she  said 
kindly.  "I  hope  you  will  find  your  friends 
well." 

"And  I  hope  the  same  for  you,"  I  replied, 
"and  a  happy  meeting  with  those  you  love." 

"Oh,  it  cannot  help  being  that,"  she 
smiled;  and  as  I  caught  a  last  glimpse  of 
her  face  from  the  platform,  as  the  cars 
rushed  past  me,  the  pure  young  lips  seemed 
forming  again  their  soft  refrain  of  "Home, 
Sweet  Home." 

Many    a    time    during    the    next    four 


"HOME,  SWEET   HOME"  55 

months,  when  I  was  miles  away  from  the 
place  of  our  meeting,  did  I  recall  that 
lovely  and  loving  face.  It  shone  like  a 
star  amid  other  memories  of  the  journey. 
The  vulgar  display  of  some,  the  supercili- 
ous haughtiness  of  others,  the  absolute  un- 
consciousness of  life's  struggle  among  still 
more,  of  our  wealthy  travelers  returning 
from  their  summer  dissipations;  and  the 
hard,  ungracious  lines  of  worry  and  anxi- 
ety and  ^ager  striving  stamped  upon  the 
faces  of  their  less  fortunate  companions; 
were  both  alike  thrown  into  vivid  relief  on 
the  canvas  of  recollection  by  the  memory 
of  that  picture  of  unselfish  love  and  tender 
hope. 

One  day,  I  received,  by  chance,  a  copy  of 
a  paper  published  near  her  home;  and 
among  the  notices  of  local  events,  I  read 
the  following:  "Miss  L —  F —  died  last 
week  of  consumption.  She  had  been  ill 
several  months,  but  grew  rapidly  worse 
after  the  death  of  her  mother,  which,  as  our 
readers  will  remember,  took  place  about 
six  weeks  ago.  She  will  be  greatly  la- 
mented by  her  friends  and  pupils.  She  was 
but  twenty-two  years  old."  I  laid  the  paper 
down,  my  eyes  dim;  yet  my  tears  were  not 


56  "HOME,  SWEET   HOME" 

all  of  sorrow.  Had  not  mother  and  child 
met  once  again,  and  forever,  in  "Home, 
Sweet  Home"? 


HER    NEIGHBOR. 


"But  he,  witting  to  justify  himself,  said  unto  Jesus,  And  who 
is  my  neighbor?" 

"Love,  which  is  sunlight  of  peace." 


F  there  was  any  one  thing  which  gave 
Marianne  Evans  a  special  secret  satis- 
faction, it  was  her  name.  Whether 
written  or  spoken — that  is,  if  spoken  cor- 
rectly— it  seemed  to  her  the  synonym  of  re- 
finement and  grace.  She  had  never  known 
the  grandmother  for  love  of  whom  it  was 
bestowed;  but  in  her  mother's  sitting-room 
hung  an  old-fashioned  portrait — a  fail 
young  girl  in  the  dress  of  sixty  years  ago; 
and  Marianne  had  often  sat  looking  at  it, 
with  eyes  of  absorbed  fancy,  while  her  mo- 
ther recounted  to  her  once  again  the  old 
but  ever  new  story  of  her  grandmother's 


58  HER   NEIGHBOR 

childhood  and  girlhood  in  that  old  cathe- 
dral town  across  the  sea;  of  her  marriage  to 
the  young  captain  of  the  good  ship  Daunt- 
less; and  that  perilous  voyage  to  the  new 
world,  with  its  stormy  ending  of  shipwreck 
and  rescue,  which  left  her  mother  or- 
phaned of  a  father's  care.  And  then  she 
had  read,  with  all  the  sentimental  sympa- 
thy of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  Miss  Austin's 
"Sense  and  Sensibility,"  missing,  I  fear, 
much  of  the  author's  real  purpose,  in  her 
fervid  interest  in  her  lovely  namesake  of 
the  tale. 

Altogether,  there  seemed,  to  Marianne, 
to  cling  about  the  syllables  of  her  name  a 
halo  of  romantic  association  to  which  none 
of  her  companions'  more  commonplace  ti- 
tles could  lay  claim.  It  had  given  her  a 
certain  sense  of  pride  and  superiority, 
whenever  she  heard  the  roll  called  in 
school,  that  none  but  herself  could  answer 
to  that  name;  and  she  felt  a  sort  of  pitying 
condescension  for  the  Marthas  and  Elizas 
whose  surnames  were  their  only  distinc- 
tion from  each  other. 

Alas!  "pride  must  have  a  fall." 
One    September    morning,    when    the 
school  reassembled  for  the  first  time  after 


HER   NEIGHBOR  59 

vacation,  there  were  two  new  pupils  stand- 
ing beside  the  teacher's  desk,  waiting  till 
the  seats  should  be  apportioned. 

I  think  I  can  see  them  still — those  little 
twin-sisters — clinging  timidly  to  one  an- 
other, and  looking  with  half-frightened 
eyes  over  the  strange  school-room.  The 
poor,  scanty  dress  told  of  a  poverty-strick- 
en home;  and  the  cloud  of  soft,  brown  hair, 
wonderful  in  its  luxuriance,  that  fell  upon 
their  shoulders,  though  brushed  and  tied 
back  with  a  piece  of  faded  ribbon,  had  evi- 
dently been  the  care  of  a  hurried  hand. 
But  the  large  grey  eyes  and  the  broad, 
thoughtful  foreheads  of  each,  told  of  intel- 
lect— perhaps  of  genius — could  it  but  be 
fostered  into  generous  life.  One  felt  an  in- 
voluntary heartache  at  the  thought  of  what 
narrow  opportunities  were  theirs,  at  the 
thought  of  how  little  brightness  or  joy  was 
possible  to  these  young  lives. 

Marianne,  in  her  fresh  muslin  robe,  with 
her  fair  silken  hair  so  carefully  curled — 
the  rounded  contour  and  lovely  bloom  of 
her  cheek  telling  so  plainly  of  health  and 
good  food,  and  tender,  watchful  care  of  a 
happy  and  abundant  home — formed  a  pain- 
ful contrast.  The  other  girls,  too,  though 


60  HER   NEIGHBOR 

not  types  of  such  delicate  beauty,  nor  all 
the  children  of  homes  so  refined  and  weal- 
thy as  hers,  yet  happy,  care-free,  flourish- 
ing samples  of  youth,  from  homes  of  indus- 
try and  comfort,  unconscious  of  the  real 
fret  and  strain  of  life — how  pathetic  was 
the  contrast  between  their  thoughtless 
light-heartedness  and  the  look  of  constant, 
womanly  anxiety  that  shadowed  these 
young  brows! 

Marianne,  and  several  of  the  older  pu- 
pils, had  dropped,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
into  their  accustomed  seats,  and  were  busy 
arranging  their  books;  the  little  bustle  of 
apportioning  uncertain  or  coveted  desks 
was  ended;  and  the  tap  of  the  bell  brought 
sudden  silence  out  of  the  subdued  hum. 
Marianne  looked  around,  to  find  that  her 
nearest  neighbors  were  the  two  little  stran- 
gers, who,  to  their  great  relief  and  joy,  had 
been  allotted  seats  side  by  side.  She  felt 
an  aggrieved  disappointment  that  her  own 
special  "chum"was  not  there  as  usual;  and 
perhaps  she  felt  also  a  foolish  and  sinful 
contempt  and  repugnance  at  such  close 
proximity  to  the  poorest  pupils  in  the 
school.  But  this  was  nothing  to  the  secret 
rage  and  mortification  that  filled  her  heart 


HER    NEIGHBOR  61 

when  she  listened  to  the  calling  of  the  roll 
and  heard  her  unwelcome  neighbors  an- 
swer to  the  question  of  their  names,  "Mary 
Fraser,  ma'am,"  and  "Anne  Fraser, 
ma'am." 

A  look  of  amused  intelligence  passed 
from  face  to  face  over  he  school-room. 
School-girls  are  proverbially  quick-witted, 
and  Marianne's  weakness  about  her  name 
was  no  secret  to  her  mates.  If  they  did  not 
disguise  a  rather  ungenerous  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  in  this  unexpected  parody  of 
her  cherished  title,  she  really  could  blame 
no  one  but  herself;  for  it  was  not  in  girl 
nature  not  to  resent  her  assumption  of  a 
"peculiar  inherited  grace,"  even  about  a 
name.  But  though  the  deepened  flush  on 
her  cheek  betrayed  her  consciousness  of 
what  was  passing,  pride  came  to  her  res- 
cue, and  she  responded  "present,"  when  her 
own  name  followed,  with  clear,  unfaltering 
distinctness.  Her  self-control  silenced  a 
half-suppressed  titter  before  it  reached  the 
teacher's  ears;  and  even  when  the  bell  rang 
for  recess,  and  laughter  and  talk  took  the 
place  of  decorum,  whatever  comments  the 
girls  might  pass  among  themselves,  there 
were  none  so  bold  just  yet  as  openly  to  as- 
sail Marianne. 


62  HER    NEIGHBOR 

The  little  sisters  did  not  venture  forth 
among  the  chattering  crowd,  but  remained 
at  their  desks,  grateful  to  be  unobserved 
and  forgotten  by  the  rest,  talking  in  low 
tones  to  one  another  over  their  lessons. 

There  were  other  surprises  in  store,  for 
all  the  school,  as  well  as  Marianne.  When 
the  classes  came  to  be  organized,  it  was 
found,  to  the  general  astonishment,  that  in 
grammar,  and  history,  and  reading,  Mary 
and  Anne  Fraser,  in  spite  of  their  thirteen 
years,  easily  took  front  rank  with  those 
much  older;  though,  in  arithmetic  and  al- 
gebra, they  fell  behind;  and  Marianne  had 
the  renewed  mortification  of  finding  her- 
self in  unexpected  close  companionship, 
even  in  her  favorite  studies,  with  these  pre- 
sumptuous waifs  of  fortune. 

When  little  Mary  stood  up  to  read  Mrs. 
Heman-s'  "Landing  of  the  Pilgrims,"  she 
seemed  to  forget  her  usual  timidity  in  the 
inspiration  of  the  poet,  and  the  words  rang 
with  new  music  as  they  thrilled  through 
her  clear  young  voice;  all  the  constraint 
and  anxiety  vanished  for  the  moment  from 
her  face;  while  her  twin-sister  regarded  her 
with  the  absorbed  enthusiasm  of  affection. 
It  was  a  beautiful  and  unique  spectacle, 


HER   NEIGHBOR  63 

and  something  of  its  beauty  and  pathos 
forced  its  way  even  to  Marianne's  reluctant 
heart. 

"They  are  the  most  extraordinary  chil- 
dren !"  she  cried  in  a  half-provoked  tone  to 
Miss  Morton — whose  path  lay,  for  some  dis- 
tance, in  a  direction  with  her  own — as  they 
were  walking  home  that  evening. 

Somehow  she  could  speak  to  her  teacher 
when  she  shrank  from  facing  the  half-sar- 
castic comments  of  the  girls.  Dear  Miss 
Morton!  whose  wise,  loving  touch  was  al- 
ways bringing  harmony  out  of  discord — 
how  many  young  lives  had  cause  to  bless 
her  influence! 

"Yes,"  she  answered  now,  "they  are  re- 
markably intelligent,  but  I  do  not  wonder 
they  are  so,  for  their  childhood  has  had 
careful  training.  Poor  little  things!  I 
fear  their  chief  dependence  now  must  be 
on  what  they  can  learn  at  school." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  of  them  then?" 
asked  Marianne,  with  keen  curiosity. 

"Yes;  their  mother  was  a  school-mate  of 
my  own;  married  when  she  was  only  seven- 
teen— a  very  happy  marriage, too,  I  believe. 
Her  husband  was  a  young  clergyman,  de- 
voted to  his  calling,  and  highly  educated. 


64  HER   NEIGHBOR 

I  was  at  their  home  once,  about  five  years 
ago,  and  even  then  one  could  plainly  see 
the  uncommon  care  and  interest  both  he 
and  his  wife  took  in  the  training  of  their 
children.  Poor  little  ones!  it  is  a  sad 
change  for  them,  from  their  happy  child- 
hood of  learning  and  play  in  that  quiet  old 
village  to  this  narrow  city  life." 

"They  are  orphans,  I  suppose?"  asked 
Marianne,  in  a  softened  voice. 

"Yes,  their  father  and  mother  both  died 
about  two  years  ago — victims  of  some  epi- 
demic prevailing  at  the  time.  They  left 
but  small  means,  and  the  two  little  girls 
fell  to  the  care  of  a  widowed  aunt,  who  had 
no  children  of  her  own.  She  had  been 
a  teacher  of  drawing,  but  these  dull  times 
reduced  her  number  of  pupils  so  seriously 
that  she  was  compelled  to  remove  to  the 
city  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  more  employ- 
ment. Of  course,  being  a  stranger  and 
without  influence,  she  has  had  a  hard 
struggle,  and  is  glad  to  eke  out  the  earn- 
ings of  her  profession  by  taking  in  sewing. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  calling  on  your 
mamma,  to  give  her  Mrs.  Morris's  address; 
perhaps  she  might  have  something  for  her 
to  do." 


HER   NEIGHBOR  65 

"I  am  sure  she  would,"  said  Marianne. 
"Mamma  would  be  quite  interested  In  the 
children,  I  know." 

She  almost  felt  shamed  out  of  her  own 
prejudice  and  dislike  by  Miss  Morton's  reci- 
tal; and  thought,  as  they  parted  company 
and  she  pursued  her  way  alone,  how 
grieved  her  mother  would  be,  did  she  know 
the  temper  of  her  mind  that  day. 

But  while  she  did  not  exactly  "let  the 
sun  go  down"  upon  her  wrath,  I  am  afraid 
it  rose  with  fresh  vigor  beneath  his  morn- 
ing beam;  and  her  reflections  were  any- 
thing but  gracious  as  she  took  her  seat 
again  beside  her  obnoxious  school-mates. 


PART    II. 

Such  studious  little  creatures  as  these 
twin-sisters  were!  Surely  Miss  Morton  had 
never  had  such  earnest,  willing  pupils 
before!  It  was  almost  painful  to  witness 
their  eagerness;  and  Miss  Morton  felt  her- 
self that  she  must  call  a  halt  to  such  per- 


66  HER   NEIGHBOR 

sistent  industry,  and  insist  on  their  sharing 
the  play  and  fresh  air  of  recess. 

"Mary  and  Anne,"  she  said  one  day,  as 
she  tapped  the  bell  for  the  welcome  signal, 
and  the  girls  scattered  like  a  flock  of  birds, 
"come  to  the  desk,  my  dears;  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you." 

The  children  came  up  to  her,  hand  in 
hand. 

"Now,  my  dearest  little  girls,"  she  went 
on,  "I  can  not  praise  you  enough  for  your 
obedience  and  attention  in  all  your  lessons; 
but  there  is  one  thing  I  must  find  fault 
with,  and  cannot  allow  any  longer.  You 
must  not  stay  in  doors  at  recess.  Kun  out 
with  the  other  girls,  and  breathe  the  fresh 
air  and  have  a  good  romp." 

"But,  please,  Miss  Morton,  we  can  study 
so  well  at  recess;  and  we  want  so  much  to 
get  on  fast,  and  come  to  be  teachers,  so  we 
can  help  dear  auntie." 

What  anxious  little  faces  they  were! 

"You  will  study  all  the  better,  dears,  and 
come  on  all  the  faster,  by  taking  a  little 
breathing  spell.  All  work  and  no  play 
makes  a  dull  girl  as  well  as  a  dull  boy; 
so  run  out  now,  and  get  better  acquainted 
with  the  girls,  and  let  me  see  some  roses 
in  these  pale  cheeks." 


HER    NEIGHBOR  67 

It  was  a  hard  ordeal  for  the  timid  twins 
to  venture  among  that  laughing,  active 
crowd;  but  the  first  trial  over,  they  soon 
began  to  win  friendly  regard,  and  the  sweet 
childlike  mirth,  that  had  been  so  sadly  shad- 
owed by  grief  and  poverty,  began  to  bub- 
ble up  from  its  pure  well-spring  of  love  and 
happiness.  Their  gentleness  and  refine- 
ment, and  bright  intelligence  and  unselfish 
readiness  to  join  in  whatever  gave  pleasure 
to  the  rest,  could  not  fail  to  win  a  way,  and 
they  had  soon  more  than  one  warm,  special 
friend  eager  to  take  their  part.  Marianne 
herself  felt  the  influence;  but  she  could  not 
forgive  the  accident  of  their  names,  nor 
their  unconscious  rivalry  of  her  position  as 
the  "clever  pupil"  of  the  school. 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  help  loving  Mary 
and  Anne,"  Jenny  Seat  on  said  to  her,  with 
the  audacious  freedom  for  which  she  was 
renowned.  "Are  you  jealous,  Marianne? 
Or  aren't  you  willing  anybody  should  even 
halve  your  name?  For  my  part,  I  think  it 
is  much  prettier  divided  between  those 
sweet  little  creatures,  than  to  belong  en- 
tirely to  such  a  proud  thing  as  you."  And 
she  ran  off  with  a  mocking  laugh,  before 
Marianne  could  collect  herself  to  answer. 


68  HER   NEIGHBOR 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  good  composi- 
tion as  Mary  Tracer's,"  one  of  the  elder 
girls  was  saying  one  Friday  afternoon,  as 
they  loitered  in  groups  after  school  was 
"out."  "So  simple  and  natural;  not  a  bit 
like  a  set  composition.  She  made  me  feel 
as  if  I  could  just  see  the  woods  and  the 
village,  and  the  old  farmhouse.  Dear!  if  I 
could  only  transform  my  wooden  essays 
into  stuff  like  that!"  And  Eliza  Green  gave 
a  comical  sigh. 

Above  all  the  names  she  knew,  Marianne 
had  always  regarded  this  unfortunate  com- 
bination with  supreme  contempt;  yet  some- 
thing stirred  in  her  heart  now  like  admira- 
tion for  this  plain  girl  with  her  plainer 
name.  Was  it  not  possible  that  even  the 
most  plebeian  name  might  become  the  syn- 
onym for  love  and  grace,  if  worn  by  such  a 
generous  spirit? 

"But  what  did  you  think  of  Anne's 
poem?"  struck  in  the  irrepressible  Jenny. 
"There  was  a  surprise  for  you!  Real  poe- 
try, too,  though  only  a  child's  song.  Even 
Miss  Morton  did  not  expect  that,  though 
she  thinks  so  much  of  them  both.  None 
of  the  rest  of  us  could  compete  there,  I 
think,  even  if  we  tried.  What  makes  you 


HER   NEIGHBOR  69 

so  silent,  Marianne?  Poets  are  born,  not 
made,  you  know — no  use  to  be  jealous  of 
them."  And  she  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh. 

"You  have  no  right  to  accuse  me  of  jeal- 
ousy," Marianne  answered,  coldly;  "but  I 
must  confess,  whatever  merit  Anne's  poem 
may  have,  I  do  not  see  the  use  or  wisdom 
of  encouraging  her  in  such  efforts;  what 
good  can  it  ever  do  her  in  a  working  life?" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  begging  your  pardon, 
my  lady,  all  our  lives  should  be  working 
ones,  as  your  own  dear  mother  told  us  in 
Sunday  school  last  week.  And  in  the  next 
place,  the  nest  may  be  very  ragged  and 
small,  but  that  won't  keep  the  bird  from 
singing  when  the  music  is  in  its  breast. 
Grenius  is  always  vindicating  democracy." 

"Oh,  girls,"  broke  in  Martha  Lane,  "do 
you  remember  that  horrible  'pome'  last 
year — when  that  hateful  Luvia  Koberts, 
who  was  always  telling  us  of  her  father's 
money  and  servants,  saw  fit  to  invoke  the 
muse?" 

And  at  this  recollection  the  whole  group 
joined  in  contagious  laughter,  even  Mari- 
anne's reserve  giving  way. 

"I  know  that  'pome'  by  heart  to-day," 
said  Jennie;  "now  I  have  learned  Anne's, 


70  HER   NEIGHBOR 

too;  I  want  to  recite  it  to  mamma  when  I 
get  home.  They  make  two  good  compan- 
ion pieces,  don't  they?  One  might  label 
them  Vulgarity  and  Nature." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mary  or  Anne  won 
the  prize  at  the  next  examination,"  said 
Eliza.  "That  would  be  a  new  departure — 
to  see  it  carried  off  by  the  youngest  pupil 
in  school." 

Marianne  gave  an  unconscious  start 
She  had  won  the  prize  last  year,  and  was 
particularly  anxious  not  to  fail  now.  Her 
father,  who  took  great  pride  in  her  attain- 
ments, had  promised  a  trip  to  Niagara  to 
celebrate  her  success.  She  grew  actually 
pale  at  the  bare  thought  of  failure. 

"Look  to  your  laurels,  Marianne!"  cried 
the  mischievous  Jenny,  whose  quick  eye 
had  noticed  her  involuntary  perturbation. 
And  with  this  parting  shot,  their  paths  sep- 
arated. 


HER   NEIGHBOR  71 


PART    III. 

Marianne's  father  and  mother,  though 
wealthy,  were  by  no  means  slavish  imitators 
of  their  more  fashionable  acquaintances. 
They  had  a  wholesome,  old-fashioned,  dem- 
ocratic faith  in  the  virtue  of  the  free  school 
as  a  sphere  for  developing  character, 
for  cultivating  independence  of  thought 
and  respect  for  the  rights  of  others. 
I  cannot  say  that  their  daughter  fully 
agreed  in  this  view.  She  had  often  looked 
longingly  after  some  of  her  girl  friends  who 
attended  "select"  young  ladies'  academies; 
but  especially  envied  those  who  pursued 
their  education  in  the  shadow  of  the  con- 
vent. It  seemed  to  Marianne  the  acme  of 
exclusive  refinement  to  pass  behind  those 
high  walls,  to  walk  in  those  old  gardens, 
and  to  study  under  the  mild  and  saintly 
rule  of  the  good  Sisters.  It  was  a  little  bit 
of  mediaeval  romance  still  left  to  flourish 
undisturbed  in  our  bustling  nineteenth 
century.  She  had  even  ventured  an  ap- 


72  HER   NEIGHBOR 

peal  to  her  father  on  the  subject,  but  met 
with  a  very  decided,  though  kind,  refusal. 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  he  said;  "we  are  not 
living  in  the  middle  ages  now,  and  it  is  not 
healthy  to  breathe  their  atmosphere  any 
more  than  any  dead  air.  We  must  be  true 
sons  and  daughters  of  our  own  era,  if  we 
would  fill  our  place  worthily;  and  to  gain 
wisdom  from  the  past,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  turn  our  back  on  the  present.  In  the 
free  school,  you  meet  with  boys  and  girls 
from  all  conditions  of  life;  and,  as  a  rule,  the 
teachers  are,  like  Miss  Morton,  faithful  and 
conscientious,  without  showing  respect  of 
persons.  Whether  you  realize  it  now  or 
not,  the  effect  upon  your  womanhood  must 
be  elevating — in  giving  you  broad  and  just 
views  of  our  relations  to  others  as  men  and 
women,  and  as  citizens  of  a  common  coun- 
try. No,  I  have  too  much  faith  in  the 
promise  of  my  Marianne's  head  and  heart, 
despite  the  foolish  little  notions  she  has  al- 
lowed to  creep  into  her  brain  at  present,  to 
narrow  her  by  an  exclusive  contact  with 
companions,  however  pleasing  or  well-be- 
haved, who  have  never  seen  below  the  sur- 
face of  their  own  particular  set." 

"But,  papa,  you  would  not  intend  my 


HER   NEIGHBOR  73 

education  to  close  with  the  free  school?  I 
will  be  through  with  that  this  term." 

"Certainly  not,  my  dear.  I  hope  you  will 
pass  so  good  an  examination  that  you  will 
be  promoted  immediately  to  the  high 
school;  and  after  your  graduation  from  it, 
I  would  like  to  give  you  a  few  years  at  Vas- 
sar,  or  some  institution  of  equal  standing. 
Then  with  your  natural  gifts  you  will  be 
really  an  accomplished,  and  a  genuinely  in- 
tellectual woman,  able  to  grasp,  for  your- 
self, the  true  aspects  of  life.  While,  if  you 
had  been  confined  to  the  narrow  limits  of  a 
convent  or  young  ladies'  seminary,  I  fear 
the  result  would  be  very  different." 

On  the  whole,  Marianne  retired  from  this 
talk  somewhat  comforted.  Her  own  na- 
tive good  sense,  when  she  allowed  it  fair 
play,  could  not  but  acknowledge  the  just- 
ness of  her  father's  reasoning;  and  as  she 
thought  of  the  generous  future  of  growth 
and  purpose  which  her  parents'  love  had 
planned,  she  recalled  for  a  moment,  with 
softened  sympathy,  the  narrow  horizon  life 
revealed  to  the  little  twin-sisters. 

"And  they  hav e  genius,"  her  heart  whis- 
pered. "Jenny  was  right.  I  may  be  clever 
and  learned,  perhaps,  after  a  while,  but  I 


74  HER   NEIGHBOR 

haven't  that.  Why  it  doesn't  seem  fair- 
it  is  cruel —  to  think  they  should  be  shut  off 
from  everything,  and  that  I  should  have  so 
much." 

A  flush  of  conscious  shame  mounted  to 
her  brow. 

"I  suppose  I  have  been  jealous,"  she 
thought.  "But  then,  I  do  hate  to  lose  the 
prize,  and  that  lovely  journey  papa  has 
promised.  And  if  they  only  had  different 
names!  It  is  odious  to  have  one's  name 
mimicked  like  that." 

However,  she  was  a  little  less  icy  in  her 
manner,  next  day  at  school,  and  the  timid 
and  surprised  response  of  her  namesakes 
touched  a  chord  in  her  heart.  The  thaw 
had  begun,  though  the  surface  crust  as  yet 
showed  but  faint  token  of  its  progress;  but 
the  sunshine  of  love  was  brightening  to- 
ward spring,  and  however  fleeting  clouds 
might  chill  its  warmth,  the  frost  must  melt 
daily,  more  and  more,  till  the  flowers  of 
sweet  good-nature  appear,  and  the  singing 
birds  of  sisterly  help  and  affection  make 
glad  the  day. 

Autumn  had  given  place  to  winter,  and 
winter  was  melting  into  spring.  It  only 
wanted  two  weeks  of  the  dreaded,  yet 


HER   NEIGHBOR  75 

wished-for,  examination  day,  when,  one 
March  morning,  there  was  a  sensation  in 
Miss  Morton's  school-room.  For  the  first 
time  since  Mary  and  Anne  Fraser  had  en- 
tered there,  one  of  the  twins  appeared  with- 
out her  mate.  "Something  is  wrong,"  was 
the  general  surmise,  as  a  murmur  of  sur- 
prise ran  round  the  room;  and  when  Miss 
Morton  announced  that  Mary  was  seriously 
ill  with  a  cold  which  threatened  pneumo- 
nia, there  were  no  eyes  which  did  not 
glance  with  kind  sympathy  at  the  quiver- 
ing lip  and  tearful  face  of  poor  little  Anne. 

"Her  aunt  has  allowed  me  to  take  Anne 
to  my  own  home  for  a  time,  till  any  fear  of 
contagion  is  past,"  Miss  Morton  explained. 
"So  your  parents  need  not  feel  any  alarm. 
I  hope  you  will  remember  to  tell  them  this. 
And  now  we  will  proceed  with  lessons." 

"So  there  is  one  out  of  the  running,"  said 
Jenny  Seaton,  at  recess.  "I  haven't  any 
hope  of  the  prize,  myself;  though  I  mean  to 
try  my  best.  But  there  is  no  doubt  of  you, 
Marianne,  unless  Anne  Fraser  beats  you. 
Any  way,  you  have  one  rival  less,  now." 

"I  would  rather  have  the  two,"  said  Ma- 
rianne, truthfully;  "there  is  no  triumph  in 
outshining  the  absent.  But  I  might  not 


76  HER   NEIGHBOR 

win,  any  way.  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think 
none  of  the  other  girls  can  excel  me." 

"Oh,  we  all  know  well  enough  you  are 
'the  wittiest/  as  well  as  'the  prettiest/  "  an- 
swered Jenny.  "If  you  weren't  so  proud, 
Marianne,  you  might  be  'the  one  we  Ipve 
best/  Aren't  you  sorry,  now,  you  felt  so 
jealous  of  those  poor  little  things'  names? 
I  think  it  is  dreadfully  lonesome  to  hear 
Anne  answer  the  roll  alone." 

"I  couldn't  coax  her  out  at  all,"  said  Mar- 
tha Lane.  "She  has  no  heart  for  anything 
but  her  books;  she  seems  to  be  studying  for 
Mary  as  well  as  herself." 

"I  hope  she  will  win  the  prize  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  Eliza  Green.  "I'd  rather,  a 
great  deal  than  get  it  myself.  Though  I've 
so  little  chance,  it  doesn't  take  much  gene- 
rosity for  me  to  say  that,"  she  added, 
laughing. 

Marianne  had  walked  apart,  but  her  ear 
caught  the  last  words.  Could  she  echo 
them?  She  dared  not  answer,  yes.  Yet 
she  felt  sincerely  grieved  for  the  illness  of 
her  little  school-fellow;  she  hoped  ear- 
nestly that  it  might  not  prove  serious.  But 
to  give  up  the  coveted  prize? — to  be  willing 
and  glad  to  give  it  up  to  brighten  those 
meager  young  lives? 


HER    NEIGHBOR  77 

"Why,  they  are  only  thirteen,"  she  ar- 
gued inly;  "it  is  really  absurd  to  suppose 
they  could  carry  it  off  from  others  so  much 
older.  And  they  may  win  plenty  of  prizes 
before  they  leave  school ;  but  for  me  to  miss 
this  last  one! — how  it  would  disappoint 
papa  and  mamma!  And  then  that  trip  to 
Niagara,  I  have  set  my  heart  on." 

Yet  her  heart  and  conscience  were  ill  at 
ease.  To  quiet  their  reproaches,  she 
showed  more  than  usual  kindness  and  in- 
terest in  her  manner  to  Anne,  whose  sor- 
rowful little  soul  gratefully  responded;  but 
Marianne  knew  that  such  kindness  was 
but  a  subterfuge — that  she  did  not  love 
her  neighbor  as  herself. 

Her  mention  of  Mary's  illness  roused  her 
mother's  sympathy  at  once,  and  she  has- 
tened to  call  on  Mrs.  Morris,  and  carry 
what  cheer  and  comfort  she  could  to  the 
poor  little  sufferer. 

Marianne  listened  with  troubled  interest 
to  her  mother's  report,  after  each  frequent 
visit. 

"I  cannot  let  you  go  with  me  yet,  my 
dear,"Mrs.  Evans  said,  a  week  later;  "Mary 
is  still  very  ill,  but  the  doctor  thinks  it  may 
not  now  prove  a  dangerous  fever.  Her  lit- 


78  HER   NEIGHBOR 

tie  sister,  even,  is  not  allowed  to  see  her. 
But  after  school  closes,  when  I  hope  she 
will  be  fairly  better,  I  shall  be  glad  to  take 
you.  We  may  learn  many  a  lesson,  child, 
from  adversity  bravely  borne;  and  though 
my  business  intercourse  with  Mrs.  Morris 
proved  to  me  that  she  was  both  a  capable 
and  intelligent  woman,  my  actual  knowl- 
edge of  her  home  life,  in  its  humble  sur- 
rounding, has  won  my  highest  regard. 
There  is  no  lady  I  know  more  worthy  of  ad- 
miration, in  the  refinement  and  culture  of 
her  mind;  and  her  little  niece  is  a  proof, 
even  as  a  child,  of  the  pure,  moral  atmos- 
phere of  her  home.  It  really  humbles  me 
to  witness  the  faith,  and  courage,  and  ten- 
der love  of  that  good  aunt,  pressed,  as  she 
is,  on  every  side,  by  care  and  anxiety  and 
toil;  and  then  to  come  back  to  our  own  de- 
lightful home,  and  remember  how  often  I 
have  allowed  the  veriest  trifles  to  fret  me!" 
"Oh,  mamma,  if  I  could  only  be  half  as 
good  as  you!"  exclaimed  Marianne;  and 
then  she  stopped,  with  a  sudden,  shocked 
sense  of  what  her  mother's  judgment 
would  be  on  the  foolish  pride  and  ungener- 
ous selfishness  which  had  closed  her  heart 
against  her  gentle  little  school-mates. 


HER   NEIGHBOR  ,  79 

"If  mamma  can  feel  like  that,"  she 
thought,  "how  willing  I  ought  to  be  for 
those  poor  girls  to  have  that  one  little  tri- 
umph and  joy  to  make  them  glad.  How 
ashamed  I  ought  to  be  when  I  look  around 
on  all  the  beautiful  things  papa  and 
mamma  are  always  giving  me,  to  think 
that  I  cannot  bear  to  lose  this  one  little 
thing  that  might  be  theirs." 


PART  IV. 

The  eventful  day  had  dawned  at  last. 
The  school-room  was  crowded  with  un- 
wonted visitors — proud  and  anxious  pa- 
rents and  grave  Directors.  From  among 
the  throng  of  bright  young  faces,  fronting 
the  teacher's  platform,  only  one  was  ab- 
sent— poor  little  Mary  was  still  held  a  pri- 
soner by  illness,  though  the  happy  light  in 
Anne's  eyes  and  the  glad,  kindly  murmur 
of  sympathy  among  the  girls  would  have 
told  you  at  once  that  all  danger  wa's  past, 


80  HER   NEIGHBOR 

and  that  a  few  weeks  would  see  the  sisters 
together  again. 

There  were  three  prizes  to  be  awarded: 
one  for  geography — a  beautiful  globe,  the 
gift  of  Marianne's  mother;  one  for  arith- 
metic— a  rosewood  writing  desk,  from  one 
of  the  directors;  and  one  for  composition 
and  rhetoric.  In  this  last  prize,  the  ex- 
citement and  interest  of  the  school  culmi- 
nated. It  was  from  a  gentleman  who  de- 
sired his  name  to  remain  unknown,  and  the 
prize  itself  was  to  remain  a  secret  until  the 
award  was  made.  Like  true  daughters  of 
Eve,  the  unknown  good  was  the  one  most 
eagerly  desired;  and  though  they  gave  ab- 
sorbed attention,  and  acquitted  themselves 
to  the  best  of  their  ability  in  all  the  preced- 
ing exercises,  yet  the  electric  flushing  and 
paling  of  every  cheek,  when  the  concluding 
act  was  reached,  showed  where  the  girlish 
heart  was  most  enlisted. 

The  examination  in  rhetoric  came  to  a 
creditable  close;  and  then  each  girl,  in  or- 
der of  her  seniority,  rose  to  read  her  essay, 
as  her  name  was  called.  Marianne  was 
first;  her  subject  was  "Peace";  it  was  beau- 
tifully and  vigorously  expressed,  though 
perhaps  some  passages  were  just  a  trifle 


HER   NEIGHBOR  81 

grandiloquent;  but  it  showed  fine  com- 
mand of  language,  and  a  thoughtful  and 
cultivated  mind.  The  other  girls  followed 
in  rotation,  with  subjects  as  various  as  the 
writers;  but  all  doing  credit,  more  or  less 
pronounced,  to  the  instruction  of  their 
teacher  and  their  own  application. 

Last  of  all  the  list  came  Anne  Fraser. 
Such  a  tiny  figure  she  looked  as  she  rose  in 
her  place;  for  the  girls  had  not  been 
grouped  on  the  platform,  like  more  ambi- 
tious debutantes  (that  distinction  was  re- 
served for  high-school  and  college),  but 
each  stood  simply  at  her  accustomed  desk. 
To  Miss  Morton's  eyes,  there  was  a  touch  of 
genuine  pathos  in  that  picture  of  the  child 
forced  for  once  out  of  her  shy  seclusion, 
and  facing  such  an  ordeal  without  her  darl- 
ing mate.  Her  simple  frock  of  black  and 
white  calico  was  in  striking  contrast  to 
some  of  the  ruffled  and  dainty  lawn  dresses 
beside  her;  but  the  delicately-moulded 
form;  the  sweet,  pure  face,  its  pallor  tinged 
now  by  a  sensitive  flush;  the  large,  serious 
grey  eyes,  and  broad  calm  forehead,  shad- 
owed by  that  cloud  of  soft,  brown  hair, 
made  up  a  lovely  portrait  that  needed  no 
extraneous  aid  of  dress  or  ornament  to  win 


82  HER   NEIGHBOR 

sympathy  and  favor.  Just  at  first,  the  low 
voice  faltered,  but  soon,  forgetting  herself 
in  the  recall  of  the  feeling  that  had  in- 
spired her  writing,  her  tones  rose  clear  and 
full,  with  childlike  fervor  of  recollection. 
She  had  not  drawn  on  any  store  of  youthful 
learning,  but  from  the  well-spring  of  a 
child's  sweet  love  and  memory,  and  "A  Day 
in  our  Old  Home"  touched  every  listener 
with  the  impulse  and  innocence  of  their 
own  dawning.  Just  so  blue  had  the  skies 
bent  above  them  in  that  old  time;  just  so 
had  the  breezes  thrilled  every  nerve;  just 
so  fresh  and  pure  had  the  flowers  bloomed; 
the  sparkling  streams  had  flowed;  and  the 
happy  birds  had  sung  just  so  in  the  branch- 
ing trees.  There  was  more  than  one  eye  wet 
with  unconscious  tears  when  the  clear 
voice  ceased;  for  a  child's  soft  touch  had 
swept  away  for  a  little  while  the  clouding 
cares  and  ambitions  of  life;  and  back  into 
those  green  pastures  and  beside  those  still 
and  crystal  waters,  a  child's  hand  had  led 
the  way. 

There  was  a  little  outburst  of  applause 
that  wakened  Anne  to  a  half-frightened 
consciousness  again;  and  with  a  timid  bow, 
she  was  glad  to  take  refuge  in  her  seat. 


HER    NEIGHBOR  83 

Music  and  singing  occupied  the  interval, 
during  which  the  committee  made  their  de- 
cision; and  then  came  the  award.  It  had 
been  a  difficult  and  delicate  task  to  decide 
fairly  in  a  school  where  all  the  pupils 
reached  such  a  high-water  mark  of  average 
excellence;  but,  at  last,  the  prize  for  geog- 
raphy was  awarded  to  Jenny  Seaton;  for 
arithmetic,  to  Martha  Lane. 

Marianne  heard  these  verdicts  with  com- 
parative indifference;  it  was  the  mysteri- 
ous third  prize  on  which  her  heart  was  set; 
but  the  delight  of  Jenny  and  Martha  was 
overflowing  and  unconcealed;  nor  did  their 
school-fellows  fail  in  generous  congratula- 
tion when  the  first  brief  pang  of  disappoint- 
ment had  passed.  Though  the  majority 
had  entered  the  lists  in  competition  for  the 
third  prize,  it  had  been  tacitly  felt  and  ac- 
knowledged by  all  that  the  only  real  ri- 
valry lay  between  Marianne  and  Anne;  and 
the  whole  school  was  quivering  with  sup- 
pressed excitement  now.  But  dear  little 
Anne,  while  she  shared  in  the  general  in- 
terest, was  really  quite  unconscious  of  her 
special  part  in  the  drama.  She  had  writ- 
ten her  simple  essay  as  the  birds  sing — 
from  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  a  loving 


84  HER    NEIGHBOR 

and  poetic  nature — delighting  in  the  song 
for  the  song's  sake;  but  to  actually  com- 
pete with  an  accomplished  young  lady  like 
Marianne — whom  the  bashfulness  of  thir- 
teen regarded  with  admiring  awe — was  be- 
yond her  wildest  ambition.  And  so,  when 
the  committee  announced  their  decision, 
and  she  heard  athe  prize  for  composition 
awarded  to  Anne  Fraser,"  the  room  seemed 
to  spin  round  and  round  the  little  victor, 
and  all  the  crowd  of  people  to  mingle  in  a 
bewildered  haze.  But  it  was  really  true! 
She  could  hear  one  of  the  Directors  ex- 
plaining that  while  all  the  essays  showed 
unusual  care  and  thought,  there  were  two 
distinguished  especially  by  originality  and 
beauty  of  style;  and  that  the  final  choice 
had  to  be  made  between  these.  Miss 
Evans'  "Peace"  showed  a  range  of  thought 
and  reading  admirable  in  a  young  girl, 
and  the  language  chosen  was  chaste 
and  forcible;  but  Miss  Eraser's  "Day  in  Our 
Old  Home,"  though  dealing  with  a  less  pre- 
tentious theme,  and  admitting  of  less  re- 
search and  illustration,  had  yet  shown  such 
a  natural  and  just  observation  of  daily 
sights  and  sounds,  such  a  close  sympathy 
with  the  varying  aspects  of  nature,  and  so 


HER   NEIGHBOR  85 

playful  and  tender  a  fancy,  that  the  com- 
mittee, judging  as  impartially  as  possible, 
had  decided  unanimously  that  the  prize 
should  be  hers.  And,  then,  amid  a  great 
tempest  of  applause,  Miss  Morton  came  for- 
ward, bearing  a  beautiful  little  statuette 
of  Hope — an  exquisite  little  terra-cotta 
figure,  whose  every  curve  and  line,  from  the 
lightly  poised  foot  to  the  graceful  head, 
was  an  inspiration  of  loveliness  and  joy. 

Whatever  their  faults,  girls  are,  as  a 
rule,  generous  creatures,  and  there  were 
but  few  in  that  throng  who  envied  Anne  a 
gift  which  every  girlish  heart  recognized  as 
peculiarly  dear  to  itself.  As  for  her,  poor 
child ! — blushing,  trembling,  altogether 
overwhelmed  with  this  miraculous  tri- 
umph— she  came  forward  to  receive  the 
prize.  The  downcast  eyes  were  raised  in 
sudden  brave  acknowledgment,  as  her 
teacher's  loving  approval  was  seconded  by 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  grouped  around 
her,  and  by  the  renewed  cheering  of  her 
comrades;  but  the  quivering  lips  could  not 
frame  a  word.  More  than  one  mother 
dropped  a  furtive  tear,  as  she  gazed  at  the 
little  orphan  in  her  simple  garb;  and  more 
than  one  among  those  dignified  Directors 


86  HER   NEIGHBOR 

felt  his  father's  heart  thrill  with  tender 
sympathy. 

And  so  it  was  all  over;  and  from  amid 
a  throng  of  kisses  and  congratulations 
Anne  escaped,  to  bear  her  treasure  home. 


PART  V. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Evans  to  her  daugh- 
ter about  two  weeks  later,  "I  am  going 
to  see  Mrs.  Morris  to-day  about  some  sew- 
ing, and  I  wish  you  would  come  with  me. 
As  vacation  is  not  over  yet,  Anne  and 
Mary  will  be  at  home,  and  your  visit  will 
please  them.  Mary  is  quite  well  now,  I  be- 
lieve, and  I  think  it  a  pity  to  leave  you 
alone  at  home  all  the  afternoon." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  Marianne,  with 
some  embarrassment,  "I  will  get  ready  at 
once."  She  did  not  utter  her  secret  thought 
that  this  visit  boded  no  particular  pleasure 
either  to  her  or  her  hostesses. 

"Why  in  the  world  should  they  care  to 
see  me?"  she  reflected  while  dressing.  "I 


HER   NEIGHBOR  87 

have  never  done  anything  to  make  them 
care;  and  it  has  all  been  a  humiliation  for 
me." 

But  her  mother  had  a  purpose  in  this 
visit,  unknown  to  her.  She  had  watched 
with  secret  anxiety  the  proud  patience 
with  which  Marianne  had  borne  her  defeat; 
and  grieved  that  the  noble  and  generous 
impulses  of  her  child's  nature  had  not  yet 
vanquished  her  wounded  self-esteem. 

As  for  Marianne  herself,  she  had  been 
unhappy  and  at  war  with  her  own  heart 
ever  since  that  unlucky  examination.  The 
disappointment  of  her  promised  journey 
was  a  very  deep  one;  but  deeper  still  was 
the  sense  of  her  father's  disappointment  in 
her  failure.  Though  he  had  said,  with 
cheery  good  humor: 

"Never  mind,  daughter;  Niagara  will 
keep;  there  are  other  examinations  loom- 
ing in  the  future,  and  your  essay  was  good 
enough  to  satisfy  any  rea;sonable  father." 
Yet  she  could  not  reconcile  herself  to  this 
consoling  tenderness,  in  place  of  the  proud 
caress  and  reward  of  her  success.  Her 
mother,  she  felt  instinctively,  cared  most  of 
all  for  the  just  and  generous  temper  of 
mind  which  could  accept  either  failure  or 


88  HER   NEIGHBOR 

success  without  injury  to  moral  feeling; 
but  though  she  knew  the  spirit  in  which 
she  had  met  this  trial  was  a  daily  grief  to 
that  loving  and  clear-sighted  judge,  she 
could  not  yet  school  her  mind  to  a  true 
submission,  nor  open  her  heart  to  gentler, 
happier  influences. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peaceful  industry  on 
which  the  door  opened,  when  Marianne  and 
her  mother  reached  Mrs.  Morris'  lodging. 
The  whirr  of  the  sewing  machine  was  in- 
terrupted at  sound  of  their  knock,  and  the 
little  sisters  raised  their  heads  from  ear- 
nest study  over  a  book,  as  their  aunt  admit- 
ted the  visitors.  Marianne  was  struck,  as 
her  mother  had  been,  by  the  courtesy  and 
refinement  of  Mrs.  Morris'  manner;  and 
by  the  tokens,  poor  though  the  room  was  in 
furnishing  and  size,  of  the  intelligence  and 
culture  of  the  indwellers  of  this  humble 
home.  The  little  walnut  cabinet,  with  its 
precious  store  of  books;  the  writing  desk  in 
the  corner;  the  one  or  two  engravings  on 
the  wall ;  the  box  of  mignonette  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, were  all  reminders  of  the  happier, 
freer  life  to  which  they  had  belonged;  and 
witnesses  of  the  brave  and  loyal  endeavor 
that  sought  through  toil  and  stress  to  keep 


HER   NEIGHBOR  89 

still  strong  and  unpolluted  the  highest 
cravings  of  the  young  souls  committed  to 
its  charge. 

Marianne  felt  how  unworthy  her  sense  of 
mortification  and  defeat  had  been,  as  she 
entered  this  atmosphere,  and  honestly 
tried  to  return  with  cordial  frankness  the 
twins'  timid  but  delighted  greeting.  But 
timid  though  she  was,  Mary  was  too  full  of 
the  joy  of  her  loving  little  heart  in  her  sis- 
ter's triumph  to  resist  this  opportunity  of 
displaying  it;  and  while  Anne  hung  shyly 
back,  she  seized  Marianne's  hand,  and,  all 
unconscious  of  the  hidden  turmoil  and  con- 
test the  prize  had  caused,  drew  her  forward 
to  their  own  special  nook  beside  the  win- 
dow. There,  in  a  small  receiss  in  the  wall, 
like  a  patron  saint  in  a  niche,  stood  the  lit- 
tle statuette;  the  wall  behind  it  and  the 
shelf  on  which  it  rested  covered  with  cloth 
of  rich  deep  blue  (the  remnants,  to  tell  the 
truth,  of  pretty  cloaks  long  since  worn  out). 
The  gilt-headed  nails,  tacking  the  cloth, 
were  studded  here  and  there  like  stars; 
while  round  the  base  of  the  figure  little 
clusters  of  spring  flowers — violets  and  dai- 
sies, gathered  by  the  children  from  the 
common  near  by — were  scattered  in  lovely 


90  |  HER   NEIGHBOR 

disarray,  like  a  votive  offering  before  a 
Bhrine.  The  warm  afternoon  sunshine 
streamed  in  at  the  window,  transfiguring 
in  its  radiant  glow  the  artist's  dream  of 
Hope,  and  the  two  young  faces  that  gazed 
on  it  with  rapt  delight  in  its  significant 
beauty. 

And  as  she  looked,  the  warm  sunlight  of 
sympathy  stole  into  Marianne's  heart.  All 
her  foolish  prejudice  and  pride  and 
wounded  vanity  seemed  to  melt  away;  she 
heard  once  more  the  angel-message  of 
"peace,  good  will,"  and  the  soft  echo  of  her 
Master's  words,  "Love  thy  neighbor  as  thy- 
self." 

"We  never  could  have  dreamed  of  such 
a  thing!"  Anne's  voice  was  saying,  in  shy 
depreciation  of  winning  such  a  treasure; 
"neither  Mary  nor  I  had  the  least  hope." 

"And  now  you  have  Hope  herself,"  said 
Marianne,  with  such  a  sweet  ring  in  her 
laugh  that  her  mother  turned  to  listen, 
with  sudden  conviction  that  the  clouds  had 
cleared  away. 

"And  it  was  such  a  surprise  for  dear 
auntie!"  they  both  exclaimed  together. 

"Oh,  we  were  so  happy,  that  day! — to 
think  that  Mary  had  got  well — and  this  to 


HER  NEIGHBOR  91 

happen,  too!"  And  Anne  ended  with  a  sigh 
of  exquisite  content. 

"Not  one  of  us  deserved  it  half  so  well," 
said  Marianne,  kissing  the  pretty  mouth; 
"and  I  am  sure  none  of  us  could  have  taken 
such  pleasure  in  it,  or  known  how  to  place 
it  so  beautifully.  I  am  glad,  with  all  my 
heart,  you  won  it  Anne — for  Mary's  sake, 
too.  You  see,  it  could  not  have  been  a 
doubled  prize  to  any  of  the  rest  of  us — we 
have  only  one  pair  of  twins." 

"Isn't  she  lovely,  auntie?"  the  little  girls 
cried,  when  Marianne  and  her  mother  had 
gone. 

"I  used  to  think  her  proud,"  said  Mary; 
"but  she  isn't  really,  a  bit.  She  seemed 
more  pleased  for  Anne  to  win  Hope  than 
herself.  I  would  do  any  thing  for  her." 

What  sweet  and  tender  confidence,  what 
confession  of  fault,  what  wise  and  loving 
encouragement  for  the  future,  passed  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter  in  their  quiet 
half  hour  that  evening  at  bed-time,  we  will 
not  detail;  but  to  father  and  mother,  and 
friends  and  school-mates,  a  sweet  humility 
seemed  henceforth  to  blend  with  Mari- 
anne's sprightly  wit  and  genuine  love  of 
knowledge;  an  ever-growing,  ever-deepen- 


92  HER   NEIGHBOR 

ing  sense  of  oneness  with  the  lives  around 
her,  that  made  her  truly,  in  spirit,  "look  not 
only  on  her  own  things,  but  also  on  the 
things  of  others." 

With  what  different  feelings  did  she  wel- 
come back  her  once  obnoxious  school- 
mates to  their  seats  beside  her  own,  when 
vacation  was  ended.  How  soon  the  mysteri- 
ous influence  of  love  and  hope  bestowed  on 
these  little  ones  bound  her  heart  to  them! 
How  soon  even  the  once  detested  echo  of 
their  names  sounded  like  the  echo  of  their 
sweet  child-affection  only,  recalling,  like  a 
fading  dream,  her  own  past  folly! 

And  when,  the  following  year,  she 
passed  with  honor  to  the  wider  sphere  of 
the  high  school,  and  her  father,  kissing  her 
in  proud  congratulation,  said  in  playful 
earnest,  "Ask  what  you  will,  Queen  Es- 
ther, even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom!"  Ma- 
rianne, with  one  swift  glance  at  her  mo- 
ther, buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and 
said,  with  a  sob  he  hardly  understood: 

"Oh,  papa,  may  I,  really?  Then,  do  you 
remember  Niagara?  And  may  I  have 
Mary  and  Anne  Fraser  to  go  along  with 
us?" 

"Those  two  nice  little  girls  I  saw  in 


HER   NEIGHBOR  93 

school?  Oh,  I  remember — one  of  them  car- 
ried off  the  prize  last  year. 

"Well,  you  are  a  tender-hearted  little 
queen,  and  the  king  must  be  true  to  his 
word.  You  had  better  get  the  trio  ready, 
mamma;  and  send  the  bills  to  me.  What 
are  you  crying  for,  puss?" 


BROKEN    PROMISES. 


"  When  the  morning  came,  the  village  awoke. 

"  The  mowers  betook  themselves  to  the  meadows,  the  children 
to  school;  the  larks,  singing  deliriously,  rose  into  the  light  of  the 
beautiful  sun. 

"  On  earth  there  wa%  nothing  changed,  only  a  mother    that 


HAT  a  charming  woman  Mrs.  Dil- 
lon is!"  said  Isabel,  closing  the 
door  after  their  visitor's  leave-tak- 
ing. "So  kind  and  winning,  and  so  pretty!" 
"When  did  you  ever  fall  in  love  with  vir- 
tue that  had  not  beauty  to  recommend  it?" 
laughed  practical  Jenny.  "I  am  willing  to 
believe  all  good  of  our  new  friend;  but 
trust  me,  Bella,  hearts  as  tender  beat  be- 
neath the  gown  of  serge  as  under  silken 
robe,  and  eyes  as  gentle  beam  from  home- 
lier faces." 

"Ah,  well,  Jenny,  she  will  learn  wisdom 
soon  enough,"  said  mamma,  with  fond  in- 
dulgence for  the  enthusiasm  of  seventeen 


96  BROKEN   PROMISES 

years,  while  a  half-sigh  gave  reluctant  as- 
sent to  the  truth  of  her  eldest  daughter's 
words.  "I  envy  that  early  belief  still — 
that  goodness  and  beauty  cannot  live 
apart." 

"No,  indeed,"  broke  in  impulsive  Isabel; 
"and  I  am  sure,  Jenny,  it  is  a  thousand 
times  more  delightful  to  think  of  Blossom 
driving  out  with  such  a  sweet,  bright,  mer- 
ry-hearted companion  as  Mrs.  Dillon  than 
with  some  prim  old  maid  or  lecturing  ma- 
tron, no  matter  how  good  they  were.  Isn't 
she  good,  Clari?"  she  added,  turning  to  a 
girl  perhaps  four  years  her  senior,  who  had 
remained  silent  hitherto. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said,  smiling  gravely,  "I 
would  not  think  any  one  good  who  could 
disappoint  faith  like  yours,  dear  Bella." 

"But  you  knew  Mrs.  Dillon  before  she 
came  to  live  here;  and  aren't  you  proud  to 
have  her  for  a  friend — don't  you  love  her? 
Ah,  I  am  sure  you  must  love  her  dearly!  I 
am  sure  my  whole  heart  went  out  to  her 
when  she  asked  mamma's  leave  to  take 
Blossom  to  the  flower-show.  Such  kind- 
nesses must  be  common  acts  with  her,  for 
why  should  we  be  her  special  favorites?" 

"She  has  the  great  happiness  of  possess- 


BROKEN   PROMISES  97 

ing  the  means  of  giving  pleasure  to  others," 
replied  Clarinda,  evasively;  her  tone  was 
troubled,  as  if  there  was  some  slight  con- 
flict passing  in  her  mind,  and  Jenny's 
searching  glance  confused  her  self-posses- 
sion. She  tied  her  bonnet-strings  a  little 
hurriedly,  and  rose  to  go. 

"I  have  stayed  too  long,"  she  said,  "and 
aunt  will  be  waiting  tea.  Good-by,  Mrs. 
Maurice;  good-by,  Jenny.  I  will  be  at  the 
church  at  four  to-morrow,  Bella.  Good-by, 
sweet  Blossom!"  and  she  bent  to  kiss  a  lit- 
tle girl  reclining  on  a  couch  near  the  win- 
dow. 

You  would  never  have  guessed,  if  it  had 
not  been  told  you,  that  this  wan  little  crea- 
ture, crippled  and  helpless,  this  poor 
blighted  flower  of  childhood,  could  be  the 
wearer  of  so  fair  a  name.  Yet  she  had 
been  a  perfect  blossom  once,  as  lovely  in 
her  infant  beauty  as  any  of  the  fairest 
blooms  of  May;  and  mother  and  sisters,  re- 
membering the  rosy  cheek,  and  dimpled 
chin,  and  rounded  limbs,  and  all  the  glad, 
unconscious  mirth  and  baby  graces  of  their 
darling,  clung  fondly  still  to  the  name  be- 
stowed in  loving  pride,  and  dearer  now  for 
mournful  recollection. 


98  BROKEN   PROMISES 

"Poor  little  thing,"  thought  Clarinda 
Ross,  as  she  went  down  the  street.  "No, 
she  dare  not  disappoint  her;  it  would  be 
too,  too  cruel;  she  is  not  so  heartless  as 
that!" 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Dillon,  the  object 
of  her  doubting  indignation,  swept  past  in 
her  chariot,  bowing  and  smiling  as  she 
caught  the  young  girl's  glance.  Would  she 
have  been  as  gracious  had  she  known  her 
secret  thought?  Yet  she  had  an  instinc- 
tive sense  that  with  Clarinda  she  had  been 
weighed  in  the  balances  and  found  want- 
ing. There  was  an  unacknowledged,  tacit 
feeling  of  repulsion  on  either  side,  the  with- 
drawal of  earnest  conviction  from  frivolous 
assent — of  truth  unsullied  from  honor 
lightly  held  and  lightly  forfeited.  The 
brilliant  woman  of  the  world  shrank 
before  the  clear  judgment  and  keen 
insight  of  the  young  orphan  girl,  poor 
and  unknown;  the  favorite  of  fortune, 
admired  and  caressed,  coveted  the  homage 
of  the  village  music  teacher  more  than  that 
of  all  the  gay  throng  that  followed  her 
steps — coveted  an  approval  which  she 
knew  no  mere  glitter  of  success,  no  meretri- 
cious qualities,  could  ever  claim. 


BROKEN   PROMISES  99 

Mrs.  Dillon  had  two  grand  aims  con- 
stantly before  her;  one  was  to  shine  in  so- 
ciety; the  other  to  be  quoted  and  praised 
as  a  "Lady  Bountiful,"  a  dispenser  of  ele- 
gant charities.  No  vulgar  cases  of  distress 
could  claim  her  pity,  no  fingers  coarse  with 
toil  receive  the  alms  dropped  from  her  soft 
white  palm.  Some  softening  halo  of  ro- 
mance, or  interesting  grief,  must  veil  the 
harsher  aspects  of  any  poverty  on  which 
her  gaze  might  dwell.  Yet,  though  Cla- 
rinda,  familiar  with  the  real  trials  and 
temptations  which  beset  the  poor,  could 
have  no  sympathy  with  this  dainty  and  del- 
icate Christian  beneficence,  she  had  early 
discovered  in  Mrs.  Dillon's  character  a  flaw 
still  more  serious  than  this  fastidious 
nicety  of  charitable  impulse. 

Their  acquaintance  had  begun  under  cir- 
cumstances peculiarly  pleasing  to  the  sen- 
sitive soul  of  the  lady.  A  night  of  storm 
and  rain;  a  young  girl,  pale  and  breathless, 
standing  at  the  open  door,  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  dazzling  light  of  the  gas  jet;  the 
shawl,  hastily  thrown  over  head,  falling 
back  from  a  slim  graceful  figure;  the  rich 
brown  hair  above  her  brow  damp  with 
moisture;  the  small  hand  nervously  hold- 


100  BROKEN   PROMISES 

ing  the  handle  of  the  door.  It  was  like  a 
scene  from  a  story  book — all  the  accesso- 
ries were  most  charming;  and  happy  in- 
deed was  Mrs.  Dillon  to  render  what  grace- 
ful attention  she  could,  in  a  case  which  so 
satisfied  her  esthetic  requirements.  It  had 
all  originated  in  a  very  natural  mistake  on 
Clarinda's  part;  the  aunt  with  whom  she 
lived,  who  supplied  as  far  as  might  be  the 
place  of  parents  dying  too  early  for  their 
child  to  understand  her  loss,  had  been  very 
ill  with  a  tedious  and  dangerous  fever,  but, 
after  weeks  of  suffering,  was  at  last  pro- 
nounced convalescent.  On  the  night  in 
question,  she  had  alarmed  her  niece  by  a 
sudden  fainting  fit,  and  no  effort  of  Clarin- 
da's  could  rouse  her  from  the  deathly  stu- 
por. The  doctor  who  attended  Mrs.  Ross 
lived  just  across  the  street,  and,  leaving  the 
lamp  alight,  Clarinda  hurried  out  to  seek 
him,  but,  confused  by  the  darkness  and  her 
own  agitation,  she  mistook  the  house  and 
rang  at  Mrs.  Dillon's  door  instead.  The 
sound  of  her  sweet,  eager  voice  in  parley 
with  the  servant  reached  the  ear  of  the  lady 
through  the  open  parlor  door,  and  drew  her 
irresistibly  to  the  presence  of  the  speaker. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  Clarinda  was  ex- 


BROKEN   PROMISES          ;.•  101 

ceedingly  touched  by  her  new  friend's 
kindness  that  night.  She  still  recalled  it 
with  a  pang  of  grateful  tenderness;  but, 
alas,  alas,  how  soon  was  the  fine  gold 
dimmed! 

Mrs.  Dillon  sent  a  servant  for  the  doctor 
at  once,  allowing  Clarinda  to  run  back  to 
her  aunt;  and  following  herself,  through 
the  mist  and  rain,  accompanied  by  a  maid, 
bearing  many  little  comforts  and  luxuries 
for  the  invalid.  The  immediate  occasion 
for  her  services  passed,  she  did  not  with- 
draw her  friendship,  but  became  daily 
apparently  more  attached  to  Clarinda. 
Mrs.  Ross  was  naturally  delighted  by  the 
intimacy.  And  Clarinda — ah!  was  it  not 
natural  that  she  should  welcome  this 
sweet  variation  in  the  dull  routine  of 
her  life?  These  rooms,  so  small  and 
poorly  furnished,  how  they  seemed  to  ex- 
pand and  brighten  and  lose  that  conscious 
air  of  poverty  when  Mrs.  Dillon's  lovely 
face  peeped  in  at  the  open  door,  and  Mrs. 
Dillon's  clear  voice  asked,  "Is  Clari  here?" 
How  pleasant  it  was,  coming  home — oh,  so 
weary! — on  Saturday  night,  from  the  end- 
less struggle  with  dull  pupils  and  unrea- 
sonable employers,  to  hear  her  aunt  say  as 


102  BROKEN   PROMISES 

she  poured  out  the  tea,  "There  is  a  note 
for  you,  Clari.  Mrs.  Dillon  will  call  for 
you  to-morrow  afternoon;  it  is  her  Sunday 
for  visiting  the  orphan  school;  and  the 
drive  will  do  you  good." 

No  doubt,  the  drive  did  do  her  good,  with 
such  a  sweet  companion;  so  did  the  sight  of 
the  little  homeless  waifs,  sheltered  by  char- 
ity. Her  eye  beamed  with  sympathy  as  she 
looked  over  the  throng  of  young,  eager 
faces — some  rosy  with  health,  some  pale 
with  recent  illness,  some  timid  and  shrink- 
ing, some  confidently  gay — all  pressing  to 
welcome  their  gracious  and  beautiful  vis- 
itor. Her  presence  was  still  a  novelty  there 
at  the  time  of  Clarinda's  first  visits,  for 
Mrs.  Dillon  had  been  but  a  few  months  a 
resident  of  that  city;  and  Clari  could  not 
help  noticing  that,  as  time  went  on,  the 
welcome  grew  less  eager,  the  cheek  did  not 
flush,  nor  the  eyes  brighten  with  almost 
painful  pleasure,  on  Mrs.  Dillon's  entrance, 
as  they  had  been  wont;  the  truthful  heart 
of  childhood  refused  to  feign  an  attach- 
ment or  a  trust  it  could  no  longer  feel. 

The  cause  was  soon  apparent  too. 

"I  must  come  next  Saturday,  and  take 
you  with  me,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Dillon  said 


BROKEN   PROMISES  103 

one  day,  in  Clari's  hearing,  to  a  poor  little, 
fading,  consumptive  creature,  whose  hack- 
ing cough  and  hectic  cheek  told  that  an- 
other birthday  would  never  be  added  to  her 
eight  short  years. 

The  child's  eyes  beamed  with  rapture. 
"Would  you  like  it  so  much?"  Mrs.  Dillon 
replied  to  their  glance.  "Then  I  will  be  sure 
to  come.  We  will  go  to  the  park,  and  see 
the  flowers  and  birds,  and  stay  all  day." 

The  week  passed  by.  Clarinda  happened 
to  visit  the  asylum  that  Saturday,  on  a  pri- 
vate errand  of  her  own;  she  had  under- 
taken a  little  special  work  of  goodness,  but 
was  shy  of  its  being  known;  indeed,  that 
was  the  only  fault  I  could  ever  lay  to  her 
charge — a  too  sensitive  shrinking  from  ob- 
servation; if  she  could  only  find  some  quiet 
corner  where  she  might  pursue  her  task  un- 
noticed, she  was  quite  happy.  She  had  no- 
ticed that  one  of  the  children  who  joined 
in  the  singing  had  a  voice  unusually  rich 
and  clear,  and  she  had  asked  the  matron's 
leave  to  come  once  a  week  and  lend  what 
assistance  she  could  to  the  cultivation  of  so 
rare  a  gift.  Her  offer  was  gladly  accepted, 
and,  the  self-appointed  task  once  begun, 
never  did  she  falter  in  its  fulfillment,  more 


104  BROKEN   PROMISES 

than  recompensed  by  the  warm  and  over- 
flowing gratitude  of  her  apt  and  docile  pu- 

PH. 

The  lesson  over,  she  was  passing  through 
the  children's  sitting-room,  on  her  way  out, 
when  she  caught  sight  of  a  little  figure, 
half-buried  in  the  cushions  of  a  lounge,  sob- 
bing convulsively.  She  stepped  hastily 
forward  to  learn  the  cause  of  such  distress, 
when  the  child  raised  her  head,  and  Cla- 
rinda  recognized  with  astonishment  the  lit- 
tle girl  to  whom  Mrs.  Dillon  had  promised 
that  bewitching  holiday;  the  day  had 
proved  so  charming  that  she  had  felt  quite 
sure  they  were  both  enjoying  the  promised 
pleasure,  especially  as  she  knew  Mrs.  Dil- 
lon was  in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  dis- 
engaged. 

"Why,  my  poor  little  darling,  what  is 
the  matter?  You  will  make  yourself 
quite  ill  by  crying  like  this,"  Clarinda  said, 
soothingly,  drawing  the  trembling  little 
frame  within  her  gentle  arms,  and  putting 
back  the  hair  from  the  burning  forehead. 

"Oh,  why — why  did  she  not  come?" 
sobbed  the  child,  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief; 
"and  I  watched — I  watched — for  her — all 
day." 


BROKEN   PROMISES  106 

Clarinda's  heart  ached  with  indignation. 
"Poor  little  lamb!  It  was  too  hard,  too 
hard,"  she  said,  hoping  to  soothe  that  hys- 
terical passion  of  tears.  A  fearful  fit  of 
coughing  seized  the  child  as  she  spoke;  she 
gasped,  and  panted,  and  grew  so  faint  that 
Clarinda,  in  alarm,  called  the  matron. 

"I  never  saw  a  child  take  anything  so 
much  to  heart,"  the  good  woman  said,  as 
she  administered  some  quieting  restora- 
tive. "I  have  been  at  my  wit's  end  about 
her  all  day;  I  thought,  by  leaving  her  alone 
a  while,  and  not  seeming  to  notice,  it  would 
pass  off;  but  she's  just  as  bad  as  ever,  and 
one  can't  use  much  authority  with  her, 
poor  thing,  she's  so  weakly  like.  There, 
there,  my  pretty,  don't  cry  so;  here's  Miss 
Boss  come  to  see  you,  if  t'other  lady  hasn't. 
May  be  she'll  tell  you  a  story.  I  wish  to 
goodness,"  she  added  under  her  breath, 
"such  a  fine  visitor  wouldn't  make  prom- 
ises she  doesn't  mean  to  keep." 

Clarinda  laid  aside  her  shawl  and  bon- 
net. She  knew  the  matron  was  unusually 
busy  that  afternoon;  her  own  day's  work 
was  over. 

"I  will  stay  for  an  hour,  anyway,"  she 
said;  "may  be  I  can  amuse  her." 


106  .  *        BROKEN   PROMISES 

She  knelt  down  beside  the  child,  and  af- 
ter a  little  while  succeeded  in  gaining  her 
attention. 

"I  know  such  a  pretty  story,"  she  said; 
"I  wonder,  would  any  little  girl  like  to  hear 
it?" 

The  child  looked  at  her  with  speaking 
eyes,  though  the  lips  still  quivered. 

"But  I  can't  tell  it  unless  she  will  sit  on 
my  lap,"  Clarinda  went  on.  "I  wonder, 
wouldn't  she  like  to  hear  all  about  that 
lovely  glass  slipper;  but  then  I  am  tired 
and  can't  talk  loud,  and  may  be  she  won't 
sit  on  my  lap — but  I  wish  she  would." 

The  little  thin  arms  reached  out  to  meet 
her  own;  the  weak,  unsteady  voice  said, 
plaintively,  "I'll  sit  on  your  lap,  Miss 
Boss,"  and  her  point  was  gained. 

So,  for  more  than  an  hour  of  that  bright 
June  evening  she  sat  holding  that  wasted 
little  form  in  a  tender  embrace,  and  rock- 
ing softly  to  and  fro,  while  she  told  the 
dear  old  stories  of  Cinderella  and  the 
Sleeping  Beauty,  and  sang  sweet,  pensive 
strains  that  lulled  the  child  to  sleep. 

As  she  walked  slowly  home  through  the 
calm  summer  twilight,  her  thoughts  unsul- 
lied by  any  self-approving  gratulation, 


BROKEN   PROMISES  107 

thankful  only  that  she  had  been  able  to  be- 
stow some  pleasure  even  on  a  child,  I  think 
her  pain  was  almost  as  severe  as  if  she  her- 
self had  borne  the  pang  of  disappointment. 
Nay,  was  she  not  bearing  the  pang  of  a  far 
deeper  disappointment — the  bitter  pain 
that  follows  the  first  knowledge  of  defect 
in  one  we  love. 

"Yet,  I  may  judge  her  wrongly,"  she 
thought  humbly;  "she  may  have  had  good 
reason." 

A  few  days  after  she  met  Mrs.  Dillon 
on  the  street;  some  casual  observation  re- 
called the  little  sufferer  to  the  lady's  mind. 

"I  declare,"  she  said,  "I  entirely  forgot 
I  had  promised  to  take  that  little  Agnes  to 
the  park  last  Saturday.  Some  friends  had 
called  before  lunch  that  day,  and  asked  me 
to  go  and  see  their  new  house,  and  I 
couldn't  refuse — they  were  so  very  press- 
ing; and  I  never  remembered  till  we  were 
in  the  carriage.  I  am  really  sorry;  but  then 
another  day  will  do  her  just  as  well.  I  hope 
she  did  not  mind  it  much ;  I  dare  say  a  few 
sugar-plums  will  make  it  all  right." 

Clarinda  said  nothing.  How  could  she? 
But  her  grave,  clear  eyes  conveyed  an  un- 
conscious reproach,  from  which  Mrs.  Dil- 


108  BROKEN   PROMISES 

Ion  turned  uneasily  away,  with  a  vague 
sense  of  shame  and  remorse. 

Alas,  this  incident  was  but  the  type  of 
many.  Yet,  to  the  casual  observer,  to  those 
who  only  notice  the  world's  outside  life, 
Mrs.  Dillon  appeared  as  gracious,  as  gene- 
rous in  her  benefactions,  as  the  fairest 
"Lady  Bountiful"  that  ever  figured  in  the 
pages  of  history  or  romance.  If  an  acquain- 
tance met  by  chance  her  elegant  chariot 
some  soft  spring  day,  and,  pausing  to  re- 
turn her  beaming  salutation,  noticed  the 
pale  and  interesting  invalid,  to  whom  she 
was  giving  an  airing,  reposing  on  those  lux- 
urious cushions  by  her  side;  did  she  not 
speak  with  enthusiasm  of  her  sweet  and 
unobtrusive  charity,  and  liken  her  to  be- 
ings of  a  purer  sphere?  If  another,  per- 
haps a  mother,  met  her  at  the  panorama, 
surounded  by  a  rosy  group  of  children,  de- 
lighting in  their  delight,  did  she  not  utter 
soft  praises  of  the  lovely  lady  whose  child- 
less home  failed  to  satisfy  the  tender  yearn- 
ings of  her  nature?  Yes,  believe  me,  if  we 
are  prone  to  think  evil,  we  are  also  prone 
to  exaggerate  good;  and  there  is  something 
in  nearly  every  heart  which  responds  with 
an  overflow  of  pleasure  to  the  tale  of  good 


BROKEN   PROMISES  109 

deeds  done,  and  is  ready  to  argue  from  the 
glimpse  revealed  that  untold  self-denials, 
untold  generosities,  have  been  practiced 
unseen  by  vulgar  eyes.  So  fared  it  with 
Mrs.  Dillon.  The  kind  acts  which  she  cer- 
tainly did  perform  with  ready  zeal,  when 
nothing  intervened  to  distract  her  atten- 
tion, won  for  her  an  enviable  name;  and  if 
the  matron  of  the  orphan  asylum  smoth- 
ered her  passing  indignation;  if  the  widow 
who  fretted  over  the  non-arrival  of  the 
warm  suit  of  winter  clothing  that  was 
so  readily  promised  to  the  fatherless  boy, 
and  so  singularly  tardy  in  bestowal, 
hushed  the  repining  that  rose  to  her  lips; 
if  many  who  suffered  the  pain  of  a  trivial 
or  serious  disappointment,  refrained  from 
any  outward  complaint,  who  shall  blame 
their  chosen  silence,  or  unjustly  speak  of 
them  as  time-servers  and  cravens?  Many 
and  substantial,  no  doubt,  were  the  favors 
they  each  and  all  received  from  that 
fair  hand.  It  is  not  her  lack  of  compassion 
or  help  of  which  I  complain;  it  is  of  that 
heedless  disregard  for  her  own  promises, 
that  slight  respect  for  her  own  word,  which 
robbed  all  her  good  deeds  of  their  most 
precious  fruit,  and  sullied  her  own  nature 


110  BROKEN   PROMISES 

with  the  degradation  of  at  least  a 
seeming  falsehood.  For  so  it  came  to  pass 
that,  even  among  those  she  benefited  most, 
her  kindest  messages  and  warmest  assur- 
ances of  help  received  but  little  credence 
until  actually  fulfilled;  and  how  often, 
even  among  those  sincerely  grateful,  was 
the  disappointment  more  clearly  remem- 
bered than  the  benefit. 

Meanwhile  the  months  followed  each 
other  swiftly  on  the  track  of  time,  and  the 
first  days  of  a  beautiful  summer  found  both 
Mrs.  Dillon  and  Clarinda  Ross  inmates  of 
the  village  where  my  sketch  begins.  Cla- 
rinda and  her  aunt  had  moved  hither  in 
obedience  to  the  call  and  urgent  entreaty  of 
an  old  and  faithful  friend — a  Mr.  L. — who 
had  been  Clarinda's  music  master  in  her 
childhood  and  early  girlhood.  Even  in  that 
long  ago  time,  she  recalled  him  as  bent  and 
worn  by  years  of  toil,  his  mild  face  beam- 
ing on  her  under  the  crown  of  iron-grey 
hair.  They  had  lost  sight  of  one  another 
since  Clari  herself  had  been  borne  away  by 
the  resistless  tide  of  circumstances,  to 
struggle  with  what  bravery  she  might 
amid  the  surging  multitude;  but  many  and 
tender  were  the  links  of  recollection  still 


BROKEN   PROMISES  111 

uniting  them.  Now,  when  health  and 
strength  were  failing  more  surely  every 
year,  Mr.  L.  wrote,  calling  her  back  to  the 
old  home-work. 

"It  would  grieve  me  much,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  "to  see  my  work  pass  into  other  hands 
than  yours;  so  come,  while  I  can  still  dele- 
gate it,  and  complete  what  I  must  leave 
unfinished.  Here  is  honest  work  and  hon- 
est compensation,  and  pleasant  neighbors, 
and  green  fields,  and  fresh,  restoring  coun- 
try air,  waiting  you— do  not  disappoint 
their  welcome.  And,  if  your  aunt  and  you, 
my  dearest  Clari,  my  beloved  pupil  and  old 
friend,  can  tolerate  the  whims  and  garru- 
lous tempers  of  an  old  and  lonely  man,  here 
is  a  quiet  cottage  that  will  brighten  afresh 
in  the  sunshine  of  your  presence." 

That  was  a  happy  summer  to  Clarinda. 
The  rose  stole  back  to  her  cheek,  which  had 
paled  in  the  close,  confining  city  rooms ;  her 
eyes  shone  clear  and  bright  as  any  child's. 
Her  old  master  listened,  with  a  smile  upon 
his  face,  to  the  universal  verdict  acknowl- 
edging her  ability  as  his  successor;  and  the 
melody  of  her  sweet  young  voice  fell  upon 
his  ear  as  she  led  the  singing  in  the  grey 
old  church,  and  awakened  vague,  tender 


112  BROKEN   PROMISES 

thoughts  of  other  harmonies  heaven  might 
grant  him  to  listen  to  ere  long.  Ah,  leal 
and  loving  soul!  for  thee  the  future  holds 
no  terror,  no  remorse.  In  the  quiet  paths 
thou  trod  on  earth,  thy  gentle  influence  has 
blessed  how  many!  Thy  duties,  never  un- 
fulfilled, have  rebuked  what  faithless  spir- 
its! 

Ah,  here  were  no  broken  promises,  no 
trust  forfeited.  The  quiet  current  of  this 
life  had  saved  from  sterile  waste  many  a 
hidden  nook,  and  even  when  it  passed 
from  earthly  sight  there  were  those  who  had 
daily  cause  to  bless  its  thoughtful  and  ten- 
der beneficence.  For  when,  that  autumn, 
death  softly  closed  the  fading,  weary  eyes 
of  the  old  music  master,  and  released  that 
childlike  spirit  from  the  trammels  of  an  in- 
firm mortality,  to  the  perennial  youth  for 
which  it  yearned,  Clarinda  found  herself 
the  heir  of  that  quaint  little  cottage  and 
garden  where  she  had  met  so  warm  a  wel- 
come months  before,  and  of  all  the  small 
wealth  of  which  her  old  friend  died  pos- 
sessed. It  seemed  real  wealth  to  her,  for  it 
lifted  herself  and  the  aunt  so  dearly  loved 
at  once  and  forever  above  the  dreary  strug- 
gle "to  make  both  ends  meet,"  and,  while 


BROKEN   PROMISES  .        113 

the  necessity  for  work  was  not  removed, 
the  terror  of  lacking  it  was  no  longer  pres- 
ent; and  a  home — no  lodging — but  a  real, 
real  home  'round  which  her  heart  entwined 
its  tendrils  more  closely  every  year;  a  trea- 
sure passionately  yearned  for,  but  beyond 
her  hopes,  was  realized  at  last. 

It  may  have  been  the  contrast  between 
Mrs.  Dillon's  life  and  that  of  the  one  whose 
last,  lingering  moments  she  had  so  lately 
shared,  that  touched  Clarinda  with  so  keen 
a  sense  of  indignation  and  sorrow  when  her 
fair  friend,  following  her  usual  impulsive 
fashion,  made  little  Blossom  her  protege, 
pro  tern.  These  summer  months,  during 
which  Mrs.  Dillon  had  fled  to  the  country 
to  recuperate  for  the  winter's  dissipation, 
were  dull,  no  doubt,  and  she  was  glad  of 
any  object,  of  however  slight  an  interest, 
which  varied  the  monotony;  while  her  pas- 
sion for  playing  the  generous  and  queenly 
benefactress,  and  winning  that  half-ador- 
ing gratitude  which  young  hearts  so  read- 
ily bestow,  might  find  full  scope  in  that  se- 
cluded spot. 

*  *  *  # 

"What  a  lovely  day  you  will  have,  Blos- 
som!" said  Isabel  Maurice,  awakening  her 


114  BROKEN   PROMT titiS 

little  sister  on  the  morning  of  the  promised 
drive. 

The  child  turned  on  her  feverish  pillow, 
and  opened  her  large,  bright  eyes,  beaming 
with  delight;  they  lit  up  the  wan  little 
face  with  too  intense  a  glory,  Bella 
thought,  pained,  she  scarce  knew  why;  and 
she  sighed  as  she  noticed  how  thin,  how 
very  thin,  the  small  arms  were  that  an- 
swered her  caress. 

"Mamma,"  she  said  that  day,  "do  you 
think  Blossom  is  any  worse  than  usual? 
Somehow,  I  fancied  this  morning  that  she 
looked  more  fevered  and  spent  than  be- 
fore." 

Mrs.  Maurice's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
Bella  saw  that  she  was  much  disquieted, 
and  questioned  her  no  more;  that  strange 
silence  falling  between  them  which  tells 
that  each  is  conscious  of,  but  unable  to 
shape  into  words,  the  other's  dread. 

Still,  when  the  child  was  brought  down 
stairs,  all  flushed  with  the  excitement  of 
the  promised  joy,  mother  and  sisters  for- 
got their  anxiety  in  her  delight  and  amus- 
ing impatience. 

"Oughtn't  you  to  dress  me  right  away, 
Jenny?"  she  said;  "for,  you  know,  may  be 
Mrs.  Dillon  will  come  very,  very  soon." 


BROKEN   PROMISES  115 

"Why,  you  little  goose,"  laughed  the  in- 
dulgent elder  sister,  "you  don't  suppose 
Mrs.  Dillon  is  as  eager  for  a  drive  as  you 
are?  But  come,  we  won't  risk  any  delay." 

Alas,  poor  little  Blossom!  Nine  o'clock 
came — ten — eleven — still  no  ring  at  the 
door,  no  sound  of  wheels  upon  the  road. 
Bella  came  home  from  her  weekly  practic- 
ing with  Clari  and  others  at  the  old  church. 
She  found  the  trembling,  expectant  child 
lying  on  her  sofa  by  the  window,  straining 
wistful  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
wished-for  carriage. 

"Don't  fret,  dear,"  Bella  said,  cheeringly. 
"Mrs  Dillon  may  have  been  busy;  she  will 
be  sure  to  come  this  afternoon.  There  is 
mamma  calling  us  to  dinner — let  me  help 
you.  You  know  Mrs.  Dillon  can't  come 
now  for  an  hour,  so  try  and  eat  a  little;  and 
then  I  will  brush  your  hair  out  nice  and 
smooth — oh,  what  a  tangled  Blossom  you 
are! — and  you  will  be  all  fresh  and  bright 
when  the  carriage  comes."  Bancroft  Librai? 

"Oh,  Bella,"  Blossom  whispered  eagerly, 
"do  you  think  she  will  come — do  you, 
really?  No  one  ever  promised  me  a  drive 
before,  and  you  can't  think  how  I  long  for 
it" 


116      ;  BROKEN   PROMISES 

"Of  course  she  will  come,  you  foolish 
little  Blossom!"  Bella  answered  confi- 
dently, but  her  heart  ached  as  she  thought 
how  true  the  child's  words  were.  All  their 
friends  were  in  moderate  circumstances, 
like  themselves,  and  much  as  many  of  them 
might  wish  to  bestow  such  a  kindness, 
much  as  Mrs.  Maurice's  own  heart  yearned 
over  her  afflicted  child,  neither  she  nor  they 
dared  afford  the  luxury  of  such  indulgence. 
So  Blossom's  visits  to  the  outside  world 
were  confined  to  a  journey  round  the  gar- 
den, where,  in  fine  weather,  Bella  would 
wheel  her  gently — for  any  rough  motion 
jarred  her  sensitive  frame — in  a  garden 
chair,  over  the  smooth  walks. 

Well,  the  day  passed  on,  and  hour  by 
hour  hope  faded  out  from  the  patient  little 
heart.  The  long,  delicious  summer  twi- 
light darkened  to  its  close,  and  through  the 
evening  quiet  came  the  roll  of  wheels  and 
merry  voices  in  laughter  and  talk;  and  Mrs. 
Dillon's  carriage  swept  past,  filled  with  a 
gay  and  elegant  party  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, loaded  with  fragrant  treasures  from 
the  flower  show. 

Blossom's  cheek  flushed  and  paled  as  she 
watched  them  pass,  and  the  soft  summer 


BROKEN   PROMISES  117 

air  carried  wafts  of  faint  perfume  through 
the  open  window.  "Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed, 
not  petulantly,  not  complainingly,  but  with 
such  a  pathos  of  disappointed  trust;  and 

one  large  tear  fell  slowly  down  her  cheek. 
*  »  *  * 

There  were  hurried  footsteps  that  night 
in  Mrs.  Maurice's  chamber,  and  anxious 
faces  watching  the  delirious  slumbers  of 
the  childish  sufferer.  I  know  not  whether 
the  crisis  of  those  long  years  of  pain  and 
trial  had  arrived  before,  or  whether  that 
bitter  pang  of  hope  deferred  had  hurried  on 
the  final  hour.  Poor  Mrs.  Maurice  always 
believed  the  latter  to  be  the  truth.  Be  it 
as  it  may,  no  skill  availed  to  save  the  faded 
flower — no  cherishing  love  might  bid  the 
blighted  Blossom  unfold  her  closing  leaves. 

Two  days  later,  Mrs.  Dillon,  meeting 
Clarinda,  learned  the  story  of  the  child's 
illness. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  she  exclaimed,  really 
shocked  and  pained  by  the  sudden  tid- 
ings. "Is  there  no  hope,  Clari,  of  her  re- 
covery? I  am  so  grieved — more  than  I  can 
say — to  have  failed  in  giving  her  that  one 
holiday;  but  really,  I  did  not  see  how  to 
help  it.  My  cousin  had  only  arrived  the 


118  BROKEN   PROMISES 

evening  before,  and  a  large  party  of  friends 
were  asking  my  company  for  that  one  day 
— they  must  leave  the  next  morning.  I 
fully  intended  taking  Blossom  out  some 
day  this  week,  to  make  amends." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Clarinda  simply, 
and  could  not  help  adding  a  little  coldly, 
"If  you  could  have  sent  your  maid  to  tell 
Mrs.  Maurice  your  change  of  plan,  it  might 
have  saved  poor  Blossom  much  needless 
pain." 

"But  I  never  thought,"  plead  Mrs.  Dillon. 
"I  was  so  hurried;  and  a  child's  passing  dis- 
appointment seems  a  thing  so  easily  rec- 
tified." 

"Yet  it  is  a  more  serious  pain  than  you 
imagine,"  Clarinda  said,  constrained  to 
speak  more  plainly  than  her  wont,  "especi- 
ally to  a  sensitive  nature.  You,  to  whom 
a  ride  is  a  pleasure  of  daily  occurrence,  can 
form  no  idea  of  the  charm  with  which  an 
imaginative,  delicate  child  invests  the  ful- 
fillment of  such  a  promise." 

"You  speak  so  gravely,"  answered  Mrs. 
Dillon.  "You — you  judge  me  harshly,  Cla- 
rinda." 

Her  lips  actually  quivered,  half  with 
wounded  pride  and  feeling,  half  with 
slowly  awakening  remorse. 


BROKEN    PROMISES  119 

"If  I  felt  as  you  do,  I  should  never  dare 
to  promise  anything,  for  fear  of  possible 
failure  in  keeping  my  word." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,"  Clari  said 
gently;  "but,  indeed,  I  only  spoke  what  I 
know  to  be  truth,  and  very  often,  believe 
me,  less  evil  is  wrought  by  promises  un- 
made than  by  promises  made  and  broken." 

She  was  too  wise  and  too  kind  to  linger 
longer  to  dispute  the  point,  and,  with  a  hur- 
ried "good  morning,"  hastened  away. 

Mrs.  Dillon  gazed  after  her,  her  eyes  full 
of  vexed  and  angry  tears,  astonished  to  find 
herself  at  all  reproved  by  another.  Indeed, 
Clarinda,  however  her  quiet  manner  might 
reveal  disapprobation,  had  always  deli- 
cately refrained  from  interfering  in  any 
way  with  Mrs.  Dillon's  bestowal,  or  non- 
bestowal,  of  kindness,  no  matter  how  obvi- 
ously the  passing  of  opinion  might  be 
thrust  upon  her.  But  here,  her  aunt's  old 
friendship  for  Mrs.  Maurice,  her  own  fond 
affection  for  all  the  family,  seemed  to  just- 
ify her  in  speaking  more  plainly  her 
thought.  Yet  she  did  it,  not  in  any  heat  of 
resentment  —  perhaps  with  indignation, 
but  with  bitter  pain  and  reluctance,  too. 

"I  have  lost  her  friendship  forever,"  she 


120  BROKEN   PROMISES 

murmured,  as  she  turned  away,  "forever! 
and  I  loved  her  dearly,  too!  But  how 
could  I  say  less?" 

That  afternoon,  Mrs.  Dillon's  servant 
left  at  Mrs.  Maurice's  door  the  loveliest 
bouquet  that  tasteful  hands  had  ever 
gathered,  and  a  basket  of  the  rarest  white 
grapes  from  the  clustering  vines  of  the  hot- 
house. 

"With  Mrs.  Dillon's  compliments;  and 
she  begged  to  know  if  the  little  girl  was 
better." 

She  had  not  been  able,  from  very  shame, 
to  come  herself  to  make  the  inquiry.  She 
was  astonished  at  the  tumult  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  that  talk  with  Clari  had 
awakened;  and  tried  vainly  to  dull  the  edge 
of  her  regrets  by  offerings  like  these. 

"No  better,  thank  you,"  Jenny  answered 
the  maid,  with  quiet  sadness;  and  sent 
their  acknowledgments  for  Mrs.  Dillon's 
kindness. 

"I  wonder  you  took  the  things!"  poor, 
impulsive,  broken-hearted  Bella  said,  an- 
grily, as  Jenny  closed  the  door.  "We  do  not 
want  her  presents  now.  I  hate  her  gra- 
cious ways — I  hate  her!"  She  broke  down 
in  smothered  sobbings. 


BROKEN   PROMISES  121 

"Bella — Bella!  don't  dear!"  Jenny  whis- 
pered. "She  has  done  wrong,  I  own,  not  to 
send  us  word;  but  may  be  she  has  excuse 
for  her  neglect,  and  is  sorry  now — oh,  she 
may  well  be  sorry!  And  poor  little  Blos- 
som— I  thought  the  fruit  and  flowers  might 
amuse  her,  and  do  some  good." 

She  carried  them  softly  into  the  sick- 
room. The  delirium  was  over  now;  the 
large  eyes  looked  out  clearly  and  intelli- 
gently from  the  pallid,  pallid  face;  the 
small,  thin  hands  lay  nerveless  on  the  cov- 
erlet; her  smile  still  answered  theirs  again; 
her  faint  voice  spoke  to  them;  her  trem- 
bling lips  repeated  their  caress,  and  yet, 
they  knew  there  was  no  hope — no  hope! 
Oh,  hope  for  thee,  sweet  Blossom!  that  soon 
thou  shalt  have  passed  to  the  tender  arms 
of  Him  who  suffers  little  children,  and  for- 
bids them  not,  the  heaven  of  His  presence, 
where  pain  and  weariness  are  known  no 
more  forever. 

"See  what  Mrs.  Dillon  has  sent  you,  dar- 
ling!" Jenny  said  softly,  bending  over  the 
bed.  "Try  and  taste  some  of  these  nice 
cool  grapes;  and  look,  what  beautiful  flow- 
ers! She  is  so  sorry  she  could  not  come  for 
you,  that  day;  but  may  be,  when  you  are 
well  again — " 


122  BROKEN   PROMISES 

"When  I  am  well  again/'  the  child  re- 
peated, toying  absently  with  the  gifts — 
"when  I  am  well  again!"  And  she  fixed 
her  wistful  gaze  upon  her  sister's  face. 
Jenny  could  not  bear  that  mute  interroga- 
tion, and  turned  her  head  aside. 

That  night  the  struggle  ended,  and  the 
peace  of  death  fell  upon  the  fragile  frame 
so  long  tortured  by  the  anguish  of  disease. 
The  morning  light  revealed  to  Mrs.  Dillon, 
standing  at  her  chamber  window,  the  long 
streamer  of  white  crape  fluttering  from  the 
window  far  down  across  the  street.  She 
felt  a  sudden  heart  convulsion  as  she 
looked;  and  some  old  words  she  had  long 
forgotten  came  into  her  mind  unbidden: 
"Let  your  yea  be  yea,  and  your  nay  nay,  for 
whatsoever  is  more  than  these  cometh  of 
evil."  And  something  whispered  to  her 
awakened  consciousness,  "Aye,  and  what- 
soever is  less  than  these — comes  it  not  of 
evil,  too?  For  what  thy  hand  findeth  to 
do,  that  do — not  carelessly,  not  indiffer- 
ently— but  with  thy  might;  for  the  night 
draws  on." 

A  few  hours  later,  she  stood  where  Mrs. 
Maurice  watched  beside  her  child.  She 
stammered  some  words  of  wonted  sympa- 


BROKEN   PROMISES  123 

thy,  some  phrases  of  condolence;  then  rais- 
ing the  lid  of  the  basket  on  her  arm,  re- 
vealed— what  treasures  of  snowy  roses, 
of  pure  lilies  of  the  valley,  heart's-ease,  vio- 
lets, all  that  might  image  forth  the  inno- 
cent young  life  whose  earthly  bloom  was 
ended. 

"Please  allow  me,"  she  began,  with  deft 
hand  beginning  to  remove  her  tribute  from 
its  basket.  But  Mrs.  Maurice,  with  a  sud- 
den, imperative,  gentle  movement,  arrested 
her. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said,  "but  I  could  not 
bear  it." 

She  thought  of  that  crystal  tear  on  the 
cheek  of  her  poor,  patient  darling;  and 
turned  away,  with  loathing  almost,  from 
all  that  largesse  of  fragrant  loveliness 
brought  to  deck  her  bier. 

These  last  few  days  had  revealed  many 
strange  phases  of  thought  and  feeling  to 
Mrs.  Dillon.  The  grief  of  a  child  had 
seemed  a  trifling  matter — to  be  considered, 
if  nothing  more  important  hindered.  It 
had  suddenly  assumed  a  dignity,  an  an- 
guish of  its  own — as  real  as  those  of  graver 
troubles.  And  now  she  saw  that  older 
hearts  might  be  struck  through  and 


124  BROKEN   PROMISES 

4 

through  with  cruel  pain  by  that  same 
childish  grief  which  she  had  slighted  so  of- 
ten— ah,  how  often!  The  mother's  sorrow, 
the  gentleness  of  her  implied  reproach, 
touched  and  awed  her;  her  whole  life  rose 
up  suddenly  before  her,  in  all  its  false  dis- 
guise of  counterfeit  tenderness  and  charity 
for  others;  the  retrospect  shocked  and 
startled  her.  With  a  sudden  impulse,  she 
kissed  Mrs.  Maurice's  hand;  a  tear  fell  on 
it — a  mute  petition  for  pardon,  a  mute  wit- 
ness of  her  new  resolve.  Then  she  was 
gone. 

"God  help  me!"  she  said  humbly,  as  she 
went  out — "God  help  me!" 

Was  it  the  first  time  she  had  invoked 
such  help,  in  all  the  days  so  full  of  self-ap- 
plause, in  all  her  endeavor  to  gain  the 
praise  of  others? 

I  know  not  if  her  life  redeemed  its 
broken  promise,  through  coming  years;  we 
leave  her  with  those  words,  so  fit  for  falter- 
ing mortal  tongue,  upon  her  lips  and  in  her 
heart — and  are  they  not  a  prophecy  and  a 
pledge  for  all  her  future? 


